No Matter How Improbable
by Kurisuten-chan
Summary: SuperWhoLock. Throughout Earth's history, in times of great crisis a mysterious figure appears to help save the day. He's called "The Doctor." Castiel believes he may be God. He'll help stop the apocalypse, right? Now if only this 'Consulting Detective' would help Dean and Sam find him... Meanwhile the Doctor is having some angel issues of his own.
1. Chapter 1

**Kuri: **About that fic, there's been a slight change in plans. I was going to wait until the SuperWhoLock Big Bang fic challenge was going to post in August (I initially wrote this for it), but for some reason they aren't replying to any of my messages... So, I've decided to start posting early! The first chapter should be up today. :) I won't have internet access for the next week, however, so the next chapter won't be out until next week. Sorry! But - I still hope you enjoy it! (P.S. I do not own Supernatural, Doctor Who, or Sherlock.)

**Timeline: **The actual dates of various timelines will not be exactly congruent! They are relatively similar, though (except for the smattering of Torchwood that appears).

Post season one of Sherlock (and the very beginning of episode one of season two), but will contain spoilers for all of season two.

Post season five episode fourteen ("My Bloody Valentine") of Supernatural (but with some elements of episodes fifteen and sixteen).

Post season five of Doctor Who.

Some Torchwood also snuck in, and for that...well, I've only seen up until "Countrycide" so just imagine it's some weird AU. I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IN CoE and that TOSH and OWEN and IANTO are DEAD. It's all LIES.

As for pairings, I'll pretty much refrain from them, except for cannon ones such as Rory/Amy, Owen/Tosh, Jack/Ianto, etc. There may be some hinting towards Johnlock and Destiel, but nothing explicit. Also, any flirting Jack Harkness does is just Jack being Jack.

Enjoy!

* * *

**No Matter How Improbable**

**- Chapter One -  
**

* * *

The streets of London are the most peculiar of places. Not peculiar in appearance particularly, as they are the same dark asphalt and bright yellow lines as the rest of Europe. They are lined with normal skyscrapers, normal condominiums, normal shops and restaurants and trees… But they are yet peculiar, for the _people_ who walk them are just that – peculiar.

One of the most peculiar was, at that very moment, walking down the concrete sidewalk of ordinary, uninteresting Baker Street. Most people would have quickly dismissed him as uninteresting himself. He was an older male, Caucasian, with short cropped dirty blond hair and green-brown eyes (not hazel per-say, it was more that no one bothered to think about his eyes enough to ponder their color). He was not particularly handsome but no one would describe him as particularly bad looking. His tendency towards overlarge beige jumpers did not make him very imposing either, despite his military service. Overall, a normal person living a normal life.

What these unassuming people did not take into account is that this man was John Watson.

"Sherlock! I'm back!" John yelled, shifting the bag of groceries in his hands in order to fish his keys out of his pocket. "Are you in there?"

He pushed the door inwards, revealing the hodgepodge flat that lay behind the door displaying the shiny numbers and letters proclaiming it to be apartment "221B." Sherlock's customary black coat and navy wool scarf were still hung by the door, so it was unlikely that the eccentric detective was out.

"You haven't killed yourself, have you?" John called, placing the bags of groceries on the tiny corner of unoccupied space on the kitchen table. "Sherlock?"

The doctor quietly padded down the hallway to the consulting detective's room. Just as he was about to knock on the white-painted wood of his flat-mate's door, the door swung inwards.

"It just doesn't make sense!" the man on the other side of the door proclaimed, throwing his hands up over his head before storming out of the room and flopping down on the couch.

"Sorry – what doesn't make sense?" John asked, making his way back over to the living room.

"The phone call. All of it!" Sherlock exclaimed, his voice hinting towards melodramatic. "Moriarty! He spent so much time and effort putting together that little game of his, drawing me into that trap. He had me exactly where he wanted me. So why should a phone call – one little phone call – change all that?"

"Maybe it was some sort of threat," John suggested. "From Mycroft maybe or someone else he'd crossed."

"Don't be daft," Sherlock scoffed, moving himself to an upright position on the couch. "Mycroft wouldn't have had the leverage. Neither would anyone else I imagine."

"Something went wrong with his plan then," the doctor said. "His network is so complex – there's got to be a weak link somewhere."

"…Perhaps," Sherlock conceded after a moment. "But that still seems improbable. He's been running this entire network smoothly for years and he doesn't seem like he tolerates weak links well."

"We were about to die, you know," John huffed, moving back over to the kitchen and beginning to unpack the groceries. "You know what they say about looking a gift horse in the mouth."

"No, I can't say I do," Sherlock replied petulantly, his dark eyes watching John. "Wouldn't it be logical to look a horse in the mouth? You need to know how old it is to be able to properly care for it."

"Sherlock, it means that if you receive a gift you should be thankful for it and not criticize it, or otherwise imply that it isn't good enough," John sighed, reaching up to move over a container of methylene blue in order to make room for a jar of peanut butter.

"No wonder you normal people are all idiots if you just accept things without question," the consulting detective huffed, laying back down on the couch and pulling his blue bathrobe more tightly around him.

"It's common courtesy, Sherlock."

"And if I spent all my time worrying about 'common courtesy' then I'd never get anything done."

"Yes, well, I'd be happy enough if you just abided by the law."

Sherlock smirked. "No you wouldn't. You'd be frightfully _bored_ if I abided by the law."

John couldn't hold back a small grin at that. He couldn't deny the truthfulness of the statement.

The former army doctor was about to reply when he was interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock, dear! You have a client!"

"I'm not taking clients right now!" the consulting detective yelled back, not moving from his sprawled out position on the couch.

"It might be good for you, Sherlock," John said, closing the cupboard and turning to face the dark haired man. "Take your mind off this for a while."

"But I don't _want_ to take my mind off it," Sherlock whined. "Every second I spend not thinking about it the trail gets a bit colder!"

John sighed again before trying a different tactic. "How much of the crime in London do you think Moriarty controls?" he asked.

"…At least seventy five percent of it," Sherlock replied after a moment's pause.

"Then what's the chance that Moriarty is involved in whatever case has just been dropped on our doorstep?" John questioned, looking at Sherlock pointedly.

It was Sherlock's turn to sigh. "Bring them up, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

Standing just inside the hallway of 221 Baker Street (awaiting entrance to 221B Baker Street) were three very curious characters – both in their own levels of inquisitiveness and in the level that most other people inquired into them.

One was quite tall – noticeably taller than the other two, in fact – however none of them could ever be described as short, standing at 5'11", 6'0", and 6'4". The shortest of the three was dressed in clothes that seemed more appropriate for a tax accountant than a person with his disposition. He had an unnervingly piercing gaze and if you looked at him long enough you would notice that his blinks were few and far in between, as if he was doing so more to keep up appearances than anything. (Some might take this as proof that tax accountants are, in fact, robots.) He also did not seem to have a very good perception of personal space, if his proximity to the second tallest of the group was any indication.

The second tallest was also the most fidgety of the bunch, shuffling from foot to foot and fiddling with the corner of his worn leather jacket. He gave off a trouble maker aura and the lopsided, self-assured and slightly cocky smile he gave Mrs. Hudson did not appear out of place on his face. However, despite that confidant, devil-may-care first impression his eyes appeared strangely hollow and his face a little empty.

The tallest was calmer than the middle one, but not in the statue-like way of the shortest. He had overlong, floppy dark hair and sweet puppy-dog eyes to go along with his generally polite disposition. He appeared to be the most educated of the three, but by no means in charge. In fact, the others seemed slightly distanced from him, although most could not tell it unless they were looking for it. He seemed to be on a bit of a short leash.

They waited patiently at the bottom of the staircase as the kind elderly landlady called out to the two men living in apartment 221B. A few moments later one of the tenants yelled back, telling them to come in, and a man with short blonde hair opened the door and popped his head out, waving them in. Inside the apartment was, quite frankly, a mess. A mixture of open and unopened letters were strewn across a coffee table, interspersed with various newspapers and atop another small table next to the couch was a precarious looking stack of books. The kitchen table wasn't any better – in fact it was probably _worse_: not a single square inch was uncovered. It didn't help the image that it was covered in a range of what looked to be chemistry experiments and other apparatuses. Even more peculiar was the knife sticking out of the mantle, right next to the human skull. Not to mention the smiley face painted in bright yellow spray paint on the wall that was littered with bullet holes.

Not that Castiel, Dean, and Sam hadn't seen stranger. This was quite tame actually. It reminded them slightly of Bobby's house, truthfully.

"So what do you have?"

All three looked over to the person lounging on the couch who had just spoken.

"You are Sherlock Holmes?" Castiel said, his blue eyes piercing into the dark haired man's.

"Yes. Now what is it you want?" he replied, his calculating gaze unwavering.

Castiel reached his hand inside the right pocket of his trench coat and removed a piece of paper – a picture actually. The consulting detective meanwhile shifted his sharp gaze to evaluate the other two people in his flat, his focus becoming even sharper as a flicker of recognition passed through his expression; however he did not say anything. Turning back to Castiel, he reached out to accept the picture that the other man was holding out to him, examining the picture carefully.

"We would like you to find this man," the angel explained, his rough voice making his request seem a little darker.

"I can't help you," the detective replied, a lilt of disdain coloring his voice.

"What do you mean you can't help us?" Dean asked snappishly, grumpy at being dragged halfway around the world only to be turned down.

"Well, it's not that I can't help you; it's that I won't," Sherlock amended, his voice still disdainful. "I don't do missing persons cases. Come back when he turns up dead."

"You don't do – well, fuck you!" the blonde growled back, clearly agitated.

"Could you leave now? I can feel my vocabulary decreasing just from your presence in the same room as me," the detective shot back, laying back down on the couch and shooing them out the door.

"This is of the utmost importance," Castiel said, not yet moving from the apartment.

"Then take it to the Yard," Sherlock answered, waving them off impatiently.

"Heaven needs – " the angel started, but he was cut off by Dean.

"Come on Cas," he barked, grasping the dark haired man's elbow and causing Castiel to stare confusedly at him. "This douche bag obviously isn't gonna help us."

The angel just stared at him for a moment before allowing Dean to drag him out of the flat. The tallest one paused for a moment to stare at Sherlock, his brow furrowed and a disapproving look on his face before turning and following the other two out of 221B.

* * *

"Why'd you say that?" John asked, turning to Sherlock as soon as the door closed.

"Say what?" Sherlock asked uninterestedly, grabbing John's laptop off of the coffee table and opening it.

"That you don't do missing persons cases. I don't recall you having a specific type of case besides 'unusual,'" the former soldier replied, walking over and setting a cup of tea down in front of the consulting detective.

Sherlock looked up at him, a flash of what might have been amusement crossing his face.

"What can you tell me about them?" he asked, his eyes darting back to the computer as he quickly typed something into the search engine.

"Me?" John said, surprised.

"No, the other person in this room. Yes, you," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Um, well…" John started, unsure where to begin. "They sounded American."

"But?" Sherlock prompted, glancing up at John.

"But why would tourists go to a private detective instead of the police?" John continued, gaining a bit of confidence. "So not here on vacation and not on a business trip."

"Continue."

"I'd say military, but not currently," the former army doctor said at Sherlock's approval.

"All three of them?" Sherlock asked interestedly, looking up from the computer screen.

"Well, maybe. The two taller ones definitely – you can see it in their posture, especially the blonde one. The one in the trench coat…I'm not completely sure about him, but he just had this sort of vibe…he seemed pretty straightforward and used to following orders," John explained.

"Hmmm," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers, deep in thought. "Anything else?"

"Not really," John replied, shaking his head.

Sherlock typed something else into the computer and then smiled slightly. "Just as I suspected," he said, partly to John and partly to himself. "Dean and Sam Winchester."

"Who?" the doctor asked, sitting down in the armchair with the union jack pillow.

"American serial killers."

John choked on his tea.

"I keep up to date on the FBI's most wanted list," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's coughing fit. "They first turned up on it in September of 2006 and remained near the top for the next year and a half. I gained an interest due to the sheer variety of charges against them – everything from grave robbery and credit card fraud to torture and murder – but they reportedly died in a helicopter explosion while in FBI custody two years ago."

"Are you sure it's them, then?" John asked, having regained his ability to speak.

"Most certainly," Sherlock replied, turning the laptop to give John a look at the pictures of the two serial killers on the screen, the spitting images of two of the men who had been in their apartment only minutes prior. "The bodies were never found and the elder Winchester had apparently faked his death before in St. Louis. They even did an autopsy apparently."

"If those were serial killers in our flat then why haven't you called the police yet?" John sputtered, not quite certain how to feel about the whole situation.

"It wouldn't make any difference," Sherlock retorted, typing something else into the computer. "Even if we could catch them they've escaped police custody more times than most would think possible. Anderson would probably do something idiotic and let them escape."

"So you're just going to let them go?" John questioned, looking at Sherlock with his 'bit not good' expression.

"What? No!" Sherlock exclaimed, looking affronted. "We're going to find this 'Doctor' character they want found."

"Wait. I thought you told them you weren't going to look for him," John said, confused.

"I'm not looking for him for _them_," Sherlock replied, looking at John as if his estimation of John's intelligence had just been lowered. "This man that they're looking for obviously knows something or has something that the Winchesters want. They wouldn't risk coming to a detective unless it was important. We find this man; we have leverage and can negotiate from there."

"Makes sense," John nodded, taking a sip of his tea. "Any idea who he could be?"

"Three, currently," he answered shortly, typing rapidly on his computer again.

"And those would be…?" John asked, one eyebrow raised.

Sherlock looked up at him with a slightly exasperated expression, rolling his eyes slightly. "Obviously 'The Doctor' is an alias of some sort. There are two types of aliases: those for anonymity and those for reputation. 'The Doctor'has to be one for reputation – if it wasn't he'd still be doing whatever it is he does out in the open, confidant of the alias' protection, and the Winchesters would be able to find him themselves. Reputation, on the other hand, is much more difficult, because everyone knows _who_ he is, but not _where_ he is or _what _he's currently doing.

"At the same time, that narrows the list down considerably. There are very few professions, almost none of them legal, which allow for that sort of alias. Assassination, drug dealing, and serial killing are probably what we're looking at. Assassination is so far the least likely of my hypotheses – while the Winchesters would possibly hire an assassin in order to stay under the radar, serial killers with their body count are unlikely to have someone kill for them if they can do it themselves. There's also the fact that they came to hire me, which clearly states that they are not all that concerned with keeping under the radar. Another possibility is drug dealing, which looks more likely. Sam Winchester, the taller one, was showing obvious withdrawal symptoms," Sherlock recited as his eyes quickly skimmed over a webpage.

"Obvious?" John inquired, sipping his tea again and looking expectantly at the Consulting Detective.

"Dark rings under the eyes suggest sleep deprivation or insomnia, tremor in his right hand, furrowing of the brow in a way that suggests headache, not to mention how I saw his concentration slip when the other two were speaking with me. Obvious although none of the symptoms were highly pronounced, which leads me to conclude that he's been sober for a while, but not too long – most likely between two and three weeks. The other two also seemed to be keeping him at arm's length; they disapprove of his addiction and are probably the ones who forced him into detox. So if this 'Doctor' is a dealer, they're not looking to do business with him. The most likely explanation is that he got Sam hooked or somehow exploited his addiction and they're looking for revenge.

"The final option is that he's a fellow serial killer. I haven't heard the name before, but he could be working out of the public eye. 'The Doctor' is probably known only within certain circles, then – or maybe the Yard knows him by a different name. The Winchesters have been known to work with others before, particularly their father John Winchester and a man named Gordon Walker, both confirmed murderers, although the elder Winchester died in 2006 and Walker in 2007. And if this 'Doctor' is another serial killer then that means they're planning something big."

"How do we even know this 'Doctor' bloke will help them if they do manage to track him down?" John asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped below his chin.

"The Winchesters are notoriously charismatic, well quite a few psychopaths are, but the Winchesters are especially good. Charismatic enough to charm a Baltimore Detective into suspecting her partner of murder and then helping them escape. Her partner really was responsible for the murders, but that's really a moot point," Sherlock amended.

"Why didn't they try to charm us, then?" the doctor questioned, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"While I'm sure they could charm men if they chose to, they seem to target women preferentially. Most likely just internalized homophobia," the consulting detective replied.

A few moments of near-silence passed, Sherlock's continuous typing the only noise, while John sipped his lukewarm tea, a thoughtful look on his face. He frowned.

"What about the third one? The tax accountant with the trench coat."

"Not anyone I recognized. Although I wouldn't say he's a tax accountant – his trench coat was torn and dirty and his tie was sloppily done, not to mention how you pegged him as military," Sherlock answered. "He's important to this somehow, though. Although he followed Dean's commands, he was still their spokesperson, so not any sort of hostage, but someone they trust. An accomplice most likely, although in what capacity I'm not sure. If he's a serial killer he's probably the religious vigilante type, considering he said 'Heaven needs' before Dean cut him off."

"So what am I supposed to search?" John asked, pulling out his own laptop. "American religious serial killers?"

"Won't do any good," Sherlock replied, waving his had dismissively. "I haven't seen anything about him in the news so you probably won't find anything. Search the FBI's missing persons list."

"Missing persons?" John questioned, raising one eyebrow at Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at him with his 'you really don't understand?' expression. "His tie?"

"What's his tie got anything to do with it?"

Sherlock let out a put-upon sounding sigh before explaining, "As I said, his tie was sloppily done – he obviously doesn't know how to tie one, yet he still wears one, perhaps for work, but if it was just that then he could easily learn how to tie it himself from the internet. No – he can't tie his tie because he has someone to tie it_ for_ him. Maybe a girlfriend or boyfriend, but more likely a wife. Maybe a husband, depending on where he lives in the US. Looking at the state of his clothing, he wasn't planning on coming to Britain, meaning he left suddenly, probably without warning. Significant other doesn't know where he's disappeared to; they file a missing persons report. Elementary."

"Brilliant," John corrected, a grin spreading across his face.

Sherlock's lips twitched as he tried to suppress a smug smile.

"Found him," John announced suddenly, clicking on a picture in the FBI's missing persons database. "Jimmy Novak, age 37, last seen at his house in Pontiac, Illinois. Has a wife named Amelia and a thirteen year old daughter named Claire. He's a devout Christian, but his wife says he was becoming increasingly mentally unstable before his disappearance. He claimed that an angel was speaking to him, apparently."

"Religious fanatic," Sherlock muttered to himself. "So that decreases the possibility of 'The Doctor' being an assassin. Drug dealer is looking more likely – they might be looking for some sort of 'divine retribution' for whatever he did to Sam Winchester."

After a momentary pause, Sherlock's eyes widened in some sort of realization. The consulting detective abruptly closed his laptop and stood up, sliding his feet into a pair of soft white slippers and walking over to the door. He quickly slipped his scarf and coat on and opened the door, stepping outside. A moment later he poked his head back inside the flat.

"Coming, John?" he asked exasperatedly before continuing on, not bothering to check if the army doctor was following.

_"Does he realize that he's still wearing his bathrobe?"_

* * *

__I hope you like it so far! Please review! I'll get back to you when I can!


	2. Chapter 2

**Kuri:** Back again! Although it'll probably be at least one more week before I update again, because I'm off to Providence! (Rhode Island for you non-Americans. But I don't mean to offend any non-American who does know where Providence is or any American who doesn't.) Alas, I still do not own Supernatural, Doctor Who, or Sherlock. I don't own the amazing idea of SuperWhoLock either... Also, DI Lestrade appears briefly in this chapter - and he will play a larger role later! I'm kind of a sucker for minor characters as anyone who's read _Whisked Away_ should know. A couple of characters from the Doctor's ninth and tenth eras will also appear. Now - onwards! (P.S. Is it just me, or does Clint "Hawkeye" Barton from the new _Avengers_ movie look like an awkward cross between Dean Winchester and John Watson?)

* * *

**No Matter How Improbable**

**- Chapter Two -**

* * *

Detective Inspector Lestrade was having a fairly good day. Anderson was out sick, he had just wrapped up a major case, and he had seen neither hide nor hair of Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, just who I was looking for."

Speak of the devil…

"What do you want, Sherlock?" the silver haired man asked with a sigh, turning resignedly to look at the consulting detective. "I was just about to head home; can it wait until tomorrow?"

"No."

Well, there went his afternoon. And evening. And night. Not that he suspected his wife would really mind, what with her sneaking around all the time. The sad thing was, he couldn't even really bring himself to care anymore.

"Fine. Come with me," he replied, leading Sherlock – clad in a navy blue bathrobe and fluffy white slippers – and John into the privacy of his office.

"I need all the information you have on the Tyler case," Sherlock said abruptly as soon as the office door closed, sitting down in one of the two chairs across from Lestrade's desk and folding his hands in his lap.

"The Tyler case?" the DI asked, a surprised and confused expression on his face.

"Yes, the Tyler case. Rose Tyler, disappeared March 6th, 2005. Boyfriend Mickey Smith was suspected of her murder but never convicted. Case went cold and she was never found," Sherlock elaborated impatiently. "You were still a sergeant at the time but were involved in the case if I remember correctly."

"That one," Lestrade said, nodding his head slightly. "Kind of ridiculous it went on as long as it did, actually. The boyfriend was clearly innocent. Of course the girl's mother was adamant that it was him – she called us every day. Honestly, it was hell to be on telephone duty. Strange, though – one day she just stopped calling. Normally people like that, their calls just become fewer before gradually stopping, but she just stopped after about a year. Never heard from her again. The boyfriend did say something odd, though. Kept going on about some man the girl had met. Didn't know his name, just kept calling him 'The Doctor.'"

"'The Doctor'?" John asked, sitting up straighter.

"Yeah. Not much to go on. Why, does it mean anything to you?" he inquired, his gaze flickering between John and Sherlock, mild suspicion in his eyes.

"A client came in this morning asking about him," John replied, despite the glare that Sherlock sent his way.

"So I need the case files," Sherlock interrupted.

"Fine," Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock sent him a surprised look.

"I know that if I don't give them to you you'll get your hands on them some other way," he answered, causing a small smirk to appear on Sherlock's face.

"Wonderful," John said with a tight smile.

* * *

Amy and Rory Pond…or rather, Williams…were having the time of their life. Strange, one would think, considering they were currently residents of the sleepy English town of Leadworth, which at its most exciting had a duck pond without ducks. Well, except for the alien invasions. That was really only about three times, though, making it an average five out of ten on the TSAA (Torchwood Scale of Alien Activity).

Rory always knew that Amy wasn't meant for Leadworth. Ever since they were little kids he could tell that Amy's spirit was too impossibly large to be confined to tiny, insignificant little Leadworth. As she grew he saw her become even more striking – she stuck out like a sore thumb. He knew that she'd end up leaving someday. Never did he ever imagine that he'd be going with her. Plain, 'other one' Rory. He knew that he'd always choose her. Never did he ever dream that she'd choose _him_.

But here they were, married as of yesterday, and preparing to go on the adventure of a lifetime with a madman in a big blue box. A dashing, handsome, intelligent, charming, sweep-you-(literally)-off-your-feet madman. But Rory wasn't intimidated. He had nothing to worry about, because Amy had chosen _him_.

"Are you two about ready yet? Humans! So slow! We have the whole of time and space to see!" an impatient voice yelled from the kitchen of the Pond/Williams household.

"Doctor – _time machine_, remember?" Amy's Scottish accent replied in an annoyed tone.

A (probably ridiculous looking) grin plastered itself to Rory's face as he heard his wife's voice. Yep. He had nothing to fear.

Rory quickly stuffed the last of his considerable stack of books into his bag before heading down the old wooden staircase to meet up with Amy and the Doctor in the kitchen. He found the Doctor already there, fidgeting and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet next to the doorway like an overeager puppy anticipating a walk or a child anticipating a trip to the park. Which really wasn't that far off. The floppy haired alien did behave much like an excited puppy or small child, and he certainly treated the universe like his own personal playground.

"Ah! Ready to go, Rory? Of course you are! Where's Amy? Amy, hurry up already! We'll leave without you!" the Doctor yelled, still jumping around impatiently, pacing in circles in front of the back door that lead out into the Ponds' overgrown backyard.

"I heard you the first time, Doctor!" Amy yelled back, walking through the doorway and into the kitchen, lugging a large suitcase behind her.

"Let's go!" the Doctor exclaimed triumphantly, practically skipping out the back door, before being stopped by Amy.

"I still have to grab my backpack!" she retorted as she turned and sprinted back up the stairs, her red hair trailing out behind her as she ran.

The Doctor let out a long exasperated sigh before replying, "I'll just start taking things out to the TARDIS."

He hefted up Amy's suitcase, nearly toppling over under its weight, and Rory automatically moved to help steady him.

"I've got it! I've got it!" the Doctor insisted, scuttling backwards and through the back door, nearly tripping on the step downwards that he'd forgotten about. "I'm okay!"

Rory shook his head, once again grinning. He moved to grab his own bags, hefting them up onto his shoulders before turning to bring them out to the TARDIS, however the Doctor suddenly ran through the door, placing his hands against the frame for support and nearly making Rory drop the bags.

"It's gone!" the floppy haired alien exclaimed, a panicked look in his eyes. "Vanished! And not in the way that she's supposed to!"

"What's gone?" Rory asked, a sinking feeling in his chest.

"The TARDIS!"

* * *

"What was the point of that?" Dean asked angrily, closing the Impala's door with a little more force than necessary, although not enough to hurt his baby.

"We need to find the Doctor," Cas answered, giving the same vague answer he'd been telling them since they had been transported to fucking England.

"Yeah, I get that; you've said it a thousand times, already. What I want to know is _why_ do we need to find this 'Doctor' person?" Dean replied.

"I believe he may be God," was the angel's deadpan reply.

"You think he's God?" Sam asked, a slightly incredulous look on his face. "As in _the _God? The one in charge of this whole apocalypse mess?"

"Father is not the one behind the apocalypse," Cas said, frowning. "Michael is the one who wishes to bring about Judgment Day and fulfill the Prophecy."

"Then why don't we just gank Michael already?" Dean questioned.

"Killing Michael is beyond my power," Castiel replied solemnly. "And even if I were to have that much power, I would only be able to kill him in his corporeal form. You Dean, are his vessel. As your…_guardian_ it is impossible for me to kill you."

"Okay, but how does God fit into this?" Dean asked, glancing at Cas quickly before looking back at the road.

"God is all-powerful. He can fix this," Castiel said firmly.

"Yeah, and I though God was all-knowing, too," Dean shot back. "Why hasn't he done anything yet?"

Castiel was silent for a moment.

"I do not know," he admitted. "However, time is running out and it is our only viable option at this time."

They were silent for another moment before Sam spoke again.

"What makes you think that this 'Doctor' is God?" he asked, looking at the angel curiously.

"He is an extremely powerful being and his appearance changes – there have been eleven so far – although his soul remains the same. His soul is not human, though," Castiel said, his bright blue eyes staring unwaveringly into Sam's. "He has been present at every major event in Earth's history – including the Beginning."

"The Beginning?" Dean questioned, eyebrows rising. "As in, 'the Beginning,' beginning?"

"Yes," Castiel replied. "The Beginning."

"Huh," Dean said, looking back at the road. "So, how do we find this guy?"

"I was hoping that Sherlock Holmes would be able to find him," Castiel sighed. "He's very difficult to track down, seeing as he can disappear for centuries at a time. Sherlock Holmes, however, is a fixed point in time."

"A fixed point?" Sam asked, seeking clarification.

"Yes, a fixed point," Castiel confirmed. "A fixed point is a person, or more commonly an event, that must happen. The eruption of the volcano Vesuvius, for example. Mary Winchester's deal was another fixed point."

"So even if I hadn't…?" Dean said softly, his question trailing off.

"Yes, Dean," Castiel nodded. "Even if you had not been transported to the past, Mary Winchester would still have made a deal with Azazel."

They were silent for a few moments.

"So what does Sherlock Holmes being a fixed point have anything to do with the Doctor?" Sam asked, refocusing the conversation.

"The Doctor is drawn to fixed points," the angel explained. "If he hasn't already met Sherlock Holmes, then he will."

"Wait," Dean said, breaking into the conversation. "If this Sherlock guy is a fixed point, then doesn't that mean that his _entire life_ is a fixed point? This Doctor could meet him tomorrow or twenty years from now!"

"No," Castiel said simply. "Sherlock Holmes is to die on the fifteenth of June, 2011."

"Oh, so we only have to wait around for a year, then," Dean retorted.

"That is why I asked him to find the Doctor," Castiel said, his eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze bored into the back of Dean's head. "He is a very good detective in his own right and will likely push forward the time of their meeting."

"In case you've forgotten, he completely dismissed the case," Dean shot back.

"I actually wouldn't be surprised if he looked into it any ways," Sam intervened. "I've read some of his friend's blog before and it looks like he actually does do missing persons cases."

"The why'd he refuse ours?" Dean asked.

"Not sure," Sam shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't like Americans. He seemed like that sort of person."

Dean's eyes suddenly widened and his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

"You don't think he recognized us, do you?" he asked, a little bit of dread seeping into his voice. "We _were_ on the FBI's Most Wanted list."

"Well, we are officially dead," Sam pointed out. "Plus, why would he let us just leave if he knew? He is a detective, after all."

"Sherlock Holmes' methods have been known to be rather…unorthodox," Castiel said.

"Shit," Dean swore, a tiredness settling over him. "Well, we'll just monitor the news tonight and tomorrow to see if he's notified anyone. We do need to find this Doctor, though."

"If he didn't recognize us then I guess we can just tail him for a couple of weeks, see if he finds anything," Sam suggested.

Dean nodded. "Sounds like a plan. Worst comes to worst, Cas can always just pop us back over to the good ol' US of A."

"I will only use that if it is absolutely necessary," Castiel said, staring at Dean again. "It requires an immense amount of energy and my grace is already limited."

"Okay, last resort," Dean conceded as they pulled up into the parking lot of a slightly run down bed and breakfast. "Now, let's get something to eat. They have pie in England, don't they?"

* * *

"So," the Doctor said, his face serious and his fingers steepled with his elbows propped up on the kitchen table. "My TARDIS is gone."

He turned to Amy. "Fix it."

"What?" Amy asked, blinking. "How am _I_ supposed to fix this, Doctor?"

"Oh, why can't you have some – some residual time-altered-ness in your mind and just restore my TARDIS?" he whined, aiming a pathetically sad expression at her (it wasn't helped by the child-like floppy hair). "What good are you if you can't make my TARDIS come back?"

"Oh, stop being immature," she chastised, glaring at him. "We'll find your TARDIS."

"Do you have any idea who'd want to take it?" Rory asked, trying to focus Amy and the Doctor.

"Oh, just _everyone in the universe_," the Doctor replied, pouting.

Rory groaned in frustration.

"Can't you narrow down that list, even just a little bit?" he asked.

"No, not really."

"Well, do you have any way to track it down?" Amy asked. "Like, a TARDIS-detector or something?"

"I did have one, but I lost the remote somewhere on Xeriphas about two hundred years ago," he answered, looking slightly sheepish.

A look of realization passed over his face and he slammed his fist down on the table, grinning at Amy.

"Brilliant Pond!" he exclaimed. "I may not have the remote any more but the tracking device should still be imbedded in the TARDIS," he said, getting up from his chair to pace around the room. "I just need to create another remote that can lock onto the signal…"

Amy shot a wry smile at Rory as the Doctor became lost in his technical mutterings.

"Doctor," Rory interrupted suddenly.

"Yes, Rory the Roman? What is it?" he asked, the grin still adorning his face.

"How long will it take to make this detector?" Rory asked.

The Doctor's smile faltered slightly as he thought for a moment.

"A few days," he said, a finger on his chin. "No more than a week, though. Now, I must really get to work on this."

And with that, he disappeared off into the house. A few moments later the Ponds heard a loud crash.

"You brought him home first. He's your responsibility," Rory said quickly, looking at Amy.

Another crash.

"Remember that shopping trip to London you promised me?"

Rory nodded.

"I think now might be a good time for it."

* * *

Martha Jones-Smith, former companion to the Tenth Doctor, sat in the kitchen of the small flat she shared with her husband Mickey, clad in a TARDIS-blue bathrobe, sipping a cup of earl gray tea leisurely as she tried to wake up.

_"Getting ready for another day at the office,"_ she though wryly, a small smile perking at her lips at the thought. _"Who knew that working for a secret alien-fighting agency would involve so much paperwork?"_

She and her husband had been back in London for a couple of months now, working as liaisons between UNIT and Torchwood. It was, quite honestly, a political nightmare. She shuddered in anticipation of all the jurisdiction conflicts she'd have to review that day. Martha was just about to go take a shower, when she heard a knock at the door.

Martha immediately grew suspicious; she hadn't received any urgent phone calls from either UNIT or Torchwood and she hadn't been in contact with any of her family or friends since she'd come back to London. The UNIT agent carefully walked to the door, quickly grabbing a gun from its hiding place in one of the kitchen cabinets. Her time adventuring with the Doctor had made her weary and a little uncomfortable with guns, but once she joined UNIT firearms training was required. That and guns had saved her life a few too many times after joining UNIT for her not to appreciate them in some small way.

Martha concealed the gun carefully within her fluffy bathrobe before checking who was outside the door. She frowned as she saw two people she did not recognize, a tall man with dark curly hair and a shorter man with dirty blonde hair. She carefully opened the door, but only part way.

"Yes?" she asked, a half-hearted smile on her face, sure she was not keeping all of her anxiety out of her expression.

"Mrs. Martha Jones-Smith?" the tall one asked, smiling pleasantly. "Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard."

He showed her his badge, but not for as long as Martha would have liked. However she didn't want to appear overly paranoid, so she merely smiled and opened the door wider. She still had her gun, and Mickey was in the other room. Plus, she was pretty sure that both UNIT and Torchwood had bugged her apartment. If anything went wrong, they'd know.

"Of course," she replied. "Come in, Inspector Lestrade and…"

She trailed off, looking at the blonde man for an introduction.

"Oh, Doctor Watson," he answered, smiling pleasantly and extending his hand for her to shake. "Medical Consultant."

He seemed to be telling the truth, at least. The other one she wasn't quite sure about, though.

"Please, come in," she prompted, moving aside to let them into the apartment after shaking the doctor's hand.

They walked to the small living room where the Inspector and Doctor Watson sat themselves on the couch opposite the wooden chair that Martha brought from the kitchen.

"So, what does the Scotland Yard want with me? I do believe I've managed to pay all of my parking tickets," she said jokingly.

"Well, Mrs. Jones-Smith –" the tall one started.

"It's Doctor, actually," she interrupted.

Normally she wasn't a stickler for titles and formalities, but something about the curly haired Inspector rubbed her the wrong way. The Inspector looked like he wanted to say something more on the rude side because of her interruption, but the Medical Consultant put a hand on his arm, making him decide to keep his mouth shut.

"Yes, _Doctor_ Jones-Smith, we are in fact here to see your husband, Mickey Smith," he told her. "We need to talk to him about an old case that we're opening back up."

Martha looked at him for a few moments before nodding.

"I'll go get him," she said, standing up and moving towards their bedroom.

Once she entered the bedroom she closed the door most of the way. Not completely, but just enough that they couldn't easily see or hear her and Mickey.

"Mickey, love, wake up," she said, shaking her husband gently and flicking on the lights.

"Martha, what is it?" he asked, sitting up and yawning.

"A detective from the Scotland Yard wants to talk with you," she answered. "Something about reopening a cold case."

"Not this," Mickey groaned, flopping back onto the bed.

"What do you mean?" Martha asked, her voice a little sharp.

"Calm down," Mickey sighed. "It's probably from when Rose disappeared. Off with the Doctor, you know. For a year before she got back, her mother was convinced I'd killed her. I had to go through a lot of questioning. It wasn't exactly fun."

"Oh," Martha replied. She remembered Mickey having mentioned this offhandedly in the past. "Any idea why they'd reopen it?"

"Nothing better to do?" Mickey said, smiling slightly.

"Probably," Martha laughed. "Maybe they've run out of politicians to persecute for speeding tickets."

Mickey grinned.

"You really do need to talk to them, though," Martha said, grasping her husband's arm and pulling him out of bed. "I imagine they're starting to get impatient. They're probably wondering what nefarious deed we're plotting."

"Yes, yes. I'm getting up," Mickey grumbled, although he was still smiling. "Let's see what sort of trouble we've gotten ourselves into this time."

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please review! I've very much enjoyed your responses so far.


	3. Chapter 3

**Kuri:** Not mine. And they never will be...sigh... Enjoy the story, though! Oh, also, Martha and Mickey will not be major characters, following this chapter. After this chapter they probably won't appear again. I just wanted to give them a little cameo.

* * *

**No Matter How Improbable **

**- Chapter Three -**

* * *

"She's wary of us," Sherlock said as soon as Martha left the room. "Why is she wary of us? Before we even opened the door she was cautious."

"Well," John answered. "It is kind of an odd hour to be visiting. That and she doesn't really know what's going on. I'd be a little freaked out, too, if the police just showed up at my doorstep."

"It seems more practiced than that," Sherlock replied. "She also has a gun concealed under her bathrobe."

"A gun?" John asked, eyes widening in surprise.

"Yes, a gun, John. Probably a semi-automatic handgun," Sherlock said. John was sure that if Sherlock was the type to roll his eyes then he'd be getting an eye roll right now.

"So, they're involved in this 'Doctor' organization thing, too?" John inquired.

"Possibly," Sherlock answered. "Serial killer is looking a little less likely now because serial killers don't normally form organizations. On the other hand, because it's the Winchesters who are looking for this 'Doctor' then a serial killer organization is not out of the question. The Winchesters have their own little serial killer club back home in America."

"Hmmm," John said. "So –"

However, he was cut off by Martha and Mickey's entrance.

"Ah, Mister Smith," Sherlock said, plastering his fake smile on his face once again. "Please sit."

Mickey raised an eyebrow at him, but sat.

"And you would be…?" he asked.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock said, still smiling. "And this is my associate, Doctor Watson. Now, we're here to ask you a few questions about the 2005 Tyler case."

"What about it?" Mickey asked. "It's been five years."

"Yes, it has been," Sherlock replied. "But something has recently come to our attention involving a man known as 'The Doctor'."

At this, he saw both Martha and Mickey's eyes widen slightly, a flicker of shock passing over their faces.

"It has also come to our attention that you, Mr. Smith, claimed that Ms. Tyler had been taken by a man called 'The Doctor'. We were wondering if, perhaps, you could give us a description of this man."

"No, I don't think I can," replied Mickey.

"You can't?" John asked, surprised.

"It was quite a while ago and, really, I've tried to block most of it out. It was kind of a traumatic experience," Mickey explained.

Sherlock sighed.

"I do suppose we can do this the hard way. Mr. Smith, Doctor Jones-Smith, would you be so kind as to show me your firearm permits?" the detective asked.

Mickey and Martha looked at each other.

"No?" Sherlock said. "Well then, it looks like we'll just have to take you down to the station."

* * *

A little over two hours later, all Sherlock knew was that the Doctor had large ears and was last sighed walking into a blue Police Public Call Box. Martha and Mickey were quite stubborn. Sherlock was just about to ask them another question when the real Detective Inspector Lestrade came in, followed by two other men. The first one was tall, around six feet, and was wearing an old World War II greatcoat, while the other one was slightly shorter, but not much, and was wearing a pristine suit with a deep purple tie.

"Mr. Holmes, I presume," the one in the greatcoat said, giving Sherlock an appreciative onceover and extending his hand, surprising John and Sherlock with his distinctly American drawl. "Jack Harkness."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, waving him off, ignoring the offered hand. "I'm busy."

John sighed, but moved forward to shake Jack's hand. "Sorry about him. It's not you, I promise. He's just like that. John Watson, by the way. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Harkness."

"Please, call me Jack," the man said, aiming a flirty smile at John. "And this Ianto Jones," he continued, gesturing at the man in the suit behind him.

John smiled and nodded at him, extending his own hand in greeting, which Ianto accepted.

"John, we have work to do!" Sherlock said, glaring at Jack and Ianto.

John sighed.

"Actually," Lestrade interrupted, finally speaking up, "Mr. Harkness and Mr. Jones are taking over this case."

"What do you mean, 'taking over this case'?" Sherlock asked, shooting a dark look at the newcomers.

"We mean that the Tyler case officially falls under our jurisdiction," Jack answered, still smiling, although there was something a little tenser to his expression.

"Your jurisdiction?" John asked, raising his eyebrows. "Are you some sort of missing persons specialist?"

"Something like that," he replied, although his smile looked more like a smirk now. "We'll be taking Mr. and Mrs. Jones-Smith with us."

"You can't do that," Sherlock replied quickly. "They're here for owning unregistered firearms."

Ianto pulled a few forms out of his pocket. "I think this should sort everything out," he said, handing them to Sherlock.

Sherlock scowled at the papers as he read them, his eyes looking like he was trying to glare a hole in them. The consulting detective glowered at the two men.

"Come on, John," he said, handing the papers back to Ianto before storming out of the room.

"I'm really sorry about that," John apologized to the two men. "He's like that."

"It's no problem," Jack replied, aiming a perfect smile at John. "I guess I'll be seeing you around, then."

"Um, sure," John said, blinking.

Jack winked at him. John blushed and hurried after Sherlock.

* * *

"Why does everyone assume I'm gay?" John complained when he caught up with Sherlock. "Do I have a sign posted on my back? Or is this some sort of inside joke?"

"Your small stature lends to the assumption," Sherlock answered, still walking quickly and not bothering to look back at John. "That and your lack of ability to keep a girlfriend for more than a month –"

"That's your fault!"

"Along with the fact that you have a male flat mate –"

"Again, your fault!"

"And how you spend ninety percent of your free time solving cases with me –"

John glared at him.

"Not to mention your overly chivalrous nature –"

"It's called being nice, Sherlock," John retorted. "You know what, let's just drop it. I don't want to hear about it anymore."

Sherlock hailed a cab and he and John slid into the back seat, Sherlock telling the cabbie to take them to 221B Baker Street. They were silent throughout the trip, Sherlock only breaking the silence to pay the cabbie once they reached 221B. They ascended the stairs, but stopped in their tracks when they opened the door to their flat.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said upon seeing the man sitting in John's customary armchair, his voice tense and venomous.

"Sherlock," Mycroft replied, smiling his politician's smile. "Sit."

"I don't think I will," Sherlock answered, hanging up his coat (they had come back to change before they had gone to question Mickey Smith and his wife). "Too much energy, you know, considering my investigation _suddenly_ switched _jurisdictions_."

Mycroft sighed.

"Now, now, Sherlock," he said, tapping his umbrella distractedly. "That was hardly my fault. I have very little control over their division."

"Which means you have power over eighty percent of the organization," Sherlock replied, a bit of a pout in his voice.

"Typically it would," Mycroft countered, "but this time it truly means what it means. The Torchwood organization is…out of my jurisdiction. I only know the bare minimum. I could not have easily prevented Mr. Harkness and Mr. Jones from taking over the case."

"But you could have?" John asked, moving further into the flat and closing the door behind him.

"Perhaps," Mycroft replied after a moment. "However, it is unlikely. In our last meeting I believe Mr. Harkness declared the Torchwood Institute to be 'outside the government and beyond the police'."

"So they're some sort of freelance investigation division?" John asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Not exactly," Mycroft answered. "They are funded directly by the crown and the Institute was founded by royal decree back in 1879."

Mycroft sighed.

"What I came here to tell you, though, is to drop the investigation. Move on with your lives, find a new case," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend."

With that, Mycroft stood up from the chair and walked out of the apartment.

"He does realize that by telling you not to look into this case he's pretty much guaranteeing that you'll focus on it, doesn't he?" John asked, looking at Sherlock.

"That's the point," Sherlock replied. "He _does_ want me to investigate."

"What is this, some sort of temper tantrum at not being invited to the party?" John said, a tentative grin on his face.

"Essentially," Sherlock answered, a small smile upturning his lips. "Now, let's see what we can dig up on the Doctor's connection to Torchwood."

* * *

"Well, he didn't sic the police on us," Dean said as he flopped down on one of the small beds in the bed and breakfast he, Sam, and Castiel were staying at. "And you were, right – unorthodox is his freakin' middle name. I mean, arresting someone while impersonating a detective? He is looking into the Doctor, though."

"I do not understand," Castiel said, tilting his head to the side. "You and Sam impersonate law enforcement officials regularly."

"Dude, Cas, we're, like, the definition of unorthodox," Dead replied, sitting up on the bed. "Plus, we've never actually arrested anyone."

"Anyway," Sam interrupted, looking up from his laptop, "did he find anything?"

"Yeah, actually," Dean answered. "Found an old missing persons case where this nineteen year old girl disappeared and was never found. Her boyfriend was accused of murdering her but never convicted. He did, however, say that she had gone with some man called 'the Doctor'. Holmes tracked the boyfriend down and was questioning him about the Doctor."

"That appears to be congruent with my own findings on the Doctor," Castiel said. "It has been recorded that he regularly keeps a 'companion' with him. We have not yet determined why exactly, but he is rarely without one. I am not sure if this girl is his current companion, though."

"Current companion?" Dean asked.

"Yes," Castiel said, nodding. "Due to the nature of the events he visits and disasters he prevents it is dangerous to be around him. The possibility of death or injury is actually rather high, although many other companions have left of their own will to continue their own life on Earth."

"Huh," Dean said, eyebrows raised. "That's gotta be kind of lonely, don't you think? An eternity of people abandoning you or dying. 'Course it'd probably be lonelier without anyone at all."

"Many of his companions have been important in their own right," Castiel added. "Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, for example. While we have no concrete evidence of her actually traveling with the Doctor, they have encountered each other multiple times throughout history and worked together. The same is true for Winston Churchill. One of his lesser known companions is a man named Jack Harkness. He is mostly a mystery to Heaven, but we do know that for some reason Reapers cannot collect his soul, no matter what way or how many times he dies."

"He's immortal?" Sam asked, confusion and curiosity in his expression.

"Essentially," Castiel replied. "He was first recorded in 1869 in Cardiff, Wales. However, there is a period of time in 1940 during the Battle of Britain where he is recorded as existing in two places at once."

"Wait, his name is Jack Harkness?" Dean asked, looking over at Castiel, who nodded. "'cause I think I saw him today. He and his buddy stole Mickey Smith, the vanished girl's boyfriend, out from under Holmes, claiming that the Tyler case was under their jurisdiction."

"Did he say where he was taking them?" Sam asked.

"No, but the detective found out that he works for some organization called 'Torchwood'," Dean said.

"Let's check it out, then," Sam said, beginning an internet search on his laptop. "I'd like to be able to talk to these people, myself. Plus, being immortal sounds pretty handy."

* * *

"Huh."

"What did you find?" Sherlock asked, twisting around in his chair to look at John who had been looking up information about Police Public Call Boxes, like the one that Mickey Smith had described.

"Mickey Smith said he saw the Police Box in London, yes? Well, as of 1994 there are only four original Police Boxes left, and all in Scotland, in Glasgow. Actually there is one next to the Earl's Court tube station that was added in 1995, but he wasn't anywhere near there."

"Hmmm," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers in thought.

However, his concentration was broken by a huff of amused laughter from John.

"What? What is it?" he asked, looking back over at John.

"Nothing really," John said. "It's just, my dad got a job out in this little town called Leadworth when I was sixteen. I absolutely hated it, but there was this little girl I had a job babysitting who was _obsessed_ with police boxes. She kept going on about how she once met this man who fell out of the sky in a Police Box and how he was going to take her away from boring Leadworth and on adventures. Come to think of it, I believe she called him her 'Raggedy Doctor' –"

"What did she call him?" Sherlock interrupted, staring intensely at John.

"Her 'Raggedy Doctor'…Oh," John said, realization dawning on his face. "You don't think he could be the same Doctor, do you?"

"Two men going by the title of 'Doctor' both seen with an extremely rare Police Box telling young girls they'll take them on adventures? Not a coincidence," Sherlock said, standing up to grab his coat from the hook by the door. "I think we ought to take a trip to Leadworth."

* * *

Castiel suddenly appeared in the Winchesters' hotel room.

"What did I tell you about randomly appearing places?" Dean said once he had stopped choking on the mouthful of water he'd just drunk. "Can't you appear outside and then just walk in though the door like everybody else?"

"My apologies," the angel said. "Sherlock Holmes is traveling to the town of Leadworth in Gloucestershire. He believes he has a lead on the Doctor, or at least one of his companions."

"So, should we go to Cardiff to the Torchwood headquarters or to this Leadworth place?" Dean asked, looking to both Sam and Castiel for suggestions.

"Actually, one route to Cardiff takes you right through Leadworth," Sam said, pulling up a map on his laptop. "We could drop someone off in Leadworth while the others go on to Cardiff."

"Sounds decent," Dean conceded. "Who's going where, then?"

"Well, Castiel should probably go to Cardiff. It's a bit of a miracle that I was able to find the city where their headquarters is located in the first place – there's no way we'd be able to find the actual building, but Cas might be able to find that immortal guy," Sam said, looking to the angel for confirmation.

"Yes, I should be able to detect him," Castiel answered.

"Okay, then," Sam said, before turning to Dean. "Dean, did this Harkness guy see you at all today?"

"No, I don't think he did," he replied.

"Are you sure of that?" Sam asked.

"Not entirely," Dean answered truthfully. "He might have caught a glimpse when he was coming in the building. I didn't think I'd have to hide – he probably wouldn't recognize me."

"I think I'd better go with Cas, then," Sam said. "You can check out Leadworth."

"That might be a good idea, actually," Castiel said. "Sam will stick out in a small town."

"Dude, we'll all stick out in a small town. That's kind of the definition of a small town. It's 'small' if any outsiders stick out," Dean said, looking at Castiel. "Although I can see what you mean. Sammy's a giant."

Sam glared at Dean before going back to his internet search.

"Huh," he said, reading something on the screen.

"What is it?" Dean asked, moving to look over Sam's shoulder.

"Leadworth used to have the largest coma ward in Gloucestershire, and get this: all of the coma patients were residents of Leadoworth. That means a whole fifteen percent of their population was in a coma. Not to mention how about two years ago over half of the coma patients just suddenly woke up. No one has any clue why," Sam told them. "There's certainly something supernatural there."

"Shtriga, maybe?" Dean said.

"Possibly, but Shtrigas prefer children," Sam countered. "Most of the coma victims were adults."

"Either way, we should check it out," Dean replied, standing up and grabbing his leather jacket, pulling his car keys out of the pocket. "To Leadworth and Cardiff it is."

* * *

Amy and Rory Pond-Williams were just about to leave for London when the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it!" Rory yelled, putting the car keys back on the kitchen counter and moving to open the door.

_"It's probably just another person come to congratulate us on the wedding," _he thought as he removed the lock and swung open the door.

To say he was surprised to see two men that he had never seen before in his life was, actually, rather accurate. He looked over them, one with dark, curly hair and a blue cashmere scarf – despite that it was June – and the other wearing a black and white striped jumper.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the tall one said, smiling and flashing his badge. "And my colleague, Doctor Watson. We're looking for an Amelia Pond."

"Actually, it's Amy. I go by Amy, and it's also technically Pond-Williams," said the red head, stepping up next to Rory, her arms crossed, giving the two men a suspicious look. "This is my husband, Rory."

Rory gave them an awkward smile, unsure exactly how to react in this confrontation. Thankfully, Doctor Watson seemed to be having a similar internal dilemma.

"Amy," he interrupted in a placating tone, "why don't we let them inside? We can discuss whatever they need to discuss in the living room."

"Of course," Amy answered, still shooting suspicious looks at the detective, but stepping aside to let them in the house.

Once they all settled into their seats in the living room, Amy gave Doctor Watson another once over, her brow furrowing slightly in remembrance.

"I don't mean to be rude, but do I know you?" she asked John, a look of concentration on her face.

"Yes, actually," he said, smiling pleasantly. "I babysat you when I was sixteen. You would have been about…eight at the time."

"John," she said, a smile breaking out on her face. "Do you recall Rory, then?"

"You were the kid a few houses down that she always made her 'Raggedy Doctor', yes?" John replied, looking towards Rory, who blushed slightly.

"That was me," he answered.

"Actually, your 'Raggedy Doctor' is kind of what we're here to talk about," John said, noticing Amy's increased tension at his words.

"Why do you want to know about my delusional childhood fantasies?" she asked, keeping her voice calm. "You're not some sort of therapist now, are you?"

"No, of course not," John amended. "It just might have to do with a case we're currently working on."

"How so?" Amy questioned, suspicious again.

"Mrs. Pond, we're currently investigating a case pertaining to a woman who went missing in 2005 by the name of Rose Tyler," Sherlock answered, breaking into the conversation. "Her boyfriend reported last seeing her with a man called 'the Doctor' who he saw enter an old fashioned Police Public Call Box. John happened to recall your…_stories_ and we decided that it might in some way pertain to our case."

"Oh, you know kids," Amy said, trying to derail the conversation. "Always making up tales and playing make-believe. It was really just a phase."

"A phase that made you see two different psychiatrists?" John inquired, giving her a disbelieving look.

"Four, actually," she corrected automatically.

"Four?"

"I had a very overactive imagination," she defended. "And I bit one of them, so, yes, four."

"Amy…" John began. "This really is important. We've already tied this man to two serial killers, along with the disappearance of Rose Tyler. These two serial killers are still at large and it's vital that we find this 'Doctor' because he knows something about them."

"I've told you already; it was just my imagination," Amy replied defensively. "There is no Raggedy Doctor and there never was one."

Sherlock sighed. "Mrs. Pond, would you mind telling me who else is in this house?"

"What?" Amy asked, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic.

"There's no one else in our house," Rory said firmly.

"Yes there is," Sherlock retorted. "There were two pairs of men's shoes beside the door when we came in, and one was a size larger than the other. There was also a tweed coat hanging on the coat stand, which, judging by your husband's state of attire, does not belong to him.

"My question, though," Sherlock continued, "is why would newlyweds, married as of five in the afternoon yesterday, have someone else staying in their house right as they're about to leave on their honeymoon?"

"He's – taking care of our house," Amy replied quickly. "While we're gone, you know. Feeding the cat and such."

"I thought Rory was allergic to cats," John said, a slightly confused expression on his face.

"It's one of those furless ones," Amy replied. "She's very shy around strangers, though, so don't expect to see her."

"Mrs. Pond," Sherlock said, exasperation in his voice, "even if you do have a cat which this caretaker is looking after, why did you initially deny that there was anyone else in the house?"

"I'm horribly forgetful," Amy answered, trying to look bashful. "Such an airhead I am, and the Caretaker is so quiet, most of the time it's like he's not even there."

A crash sounded from the direction of the kitchen along with a string of exclaimed words, only a third of which Sherlock knew the language of.

"I don't have time for this," Sherlock said, standing up and moving towards the kitchen. "Coming, John?"

John sighed, turning to look at Rory and Amy.

"I'm sorry about this, Amy, but we really do need to find this 'Doctor'," he said. "I know that Sherlock's methods are rather…_brash_, but he truly is just trying to solve this case."

With that, John stood and followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

"You're _Sherlock Holmes_!" a voice exclaimed from inside. "Oooh, this is _brilliant_! I've always wanted to meet you, I have. Now, where's Doctor Watson? He must be around here somewhere – "

John stepped into the kitchen upon hearing his name, unsure what to expect. In the middle of the room stood Sherlock and another, far too energetic man. The other man was slightly shorter than Sherlock, but his enthusiasm seemed to make up for whatever he was lacking in size. He wore a reddish dress shirt, suspenders, and, interestingly, a scarlet bowtie. He certainly didn't look like a criminal, but they'd been fooled before.

"Have you done 'A Study in Pink' yet? What about 'the Great Game'?" the man asked excitedly, bouncing up and down slightly. "Have you met 'the Woman' yet? She's a tricky one, she is – "

"How did you know that?" John blurted out suddenly.

"Know what?" the man asked, turning towards John, a wide grin still adorning his face.

"'The Great Game' – why'd you call it that?" he questioned, a bit of shock seeping into his voice.

"Well, that's what you call it, isn't it?" the strange man replied.

"Yes, but I haven't posted it yet," John said.

The man's smile slipped slightly.

"I guess I'm just psychic, then," he said. "Now, what brings you fine gentlemen here?"

"Sorry, but who are you?" John asked, thoroughly confused.

"Oh, yes, how rude of me! Still rude and not ginger," he exclaimed, extending a hand for John to shake. "I'm the Doctor."


	4. Chapter 4

**Kuri:** Again, as usual and always, I do not own Supernatural, Doctor Who, or Sherlock. On the other hand, I can recommend some excellent SuperWhoLock fan-trailers (pretty much anything by Deductism on youtube - although all of Deductism's videos are amazing :)). Anyway, here's another update! Sorry this chapter is a little shorter than usual, but oh well. It's also rather Torchwood heavy. Oh - if any of the Torchwood stuff feels too OOC, please tell me! As I said in the first chapter, I've only seen a few episodes. Well, enjoy, although I actually kind of hate this chapter. (And please review!)

P.S. Does anyone know what show the aliases Sam and Castiel use are from? :)

* * *

**No Matter How Improbable**

**- Chapter Four -**

* * *

"Are you sure this is it?" Sam asked Castiel, looking around.

They were currently in Cardiff, Wales, standing in the middle of Roald Dahl Plass. Around them were mainly people heading to and from work, the occasional tourist pausing to survey the architecture and plaza. However, there was nothing resembling any sort of investigative headquarters.

"Here, there's a tourist information center," Sam said, noticing the inconspicuous door near the waterfront. "It's not much, but we could ask if they've seen this Harkness guy."

"That will not be necessary," Castiel replied, staring at a tall silver pillar at the opposite end of the plaza.

The angel began walking across the concrete to the piece of abstract art. Sam followed, although a slightly confused expression adorned his face.

"There is something here blocking human sensory input," Castiel said once he came to a stop right in front of the silver tower. "Angels have higher perception than humans, so it does not affect me. However, it is not a complete sensory block. I believe you may also be able to detect – "

"Is it that section of the pavement?" Sam interrupted, gesturing towards a slab directly in front of them. "There's something odd about it. I feel like I shouldn't be looking at it."

"Yes," Castiel nodded. "It appears to be some sort of entryway. I can also sense Jack Harkness nearby."

"How should we approach this, then?" Sam asked. "We can't just pop in unannounced – "

However, Castiel had already stepped onto the concrete slab and disappeared. Cursing under his breath, Sam followed. He was surprised as his foot moved further down than he expected, grabbing onto the angel's trench coat to regain his balance on the descending stone slab. He let go quickly, straightening his jacket, thankful that he'd had the foresight to wear his 'agent impersonating' suit (although Castiel still insisted on his traditional attire). As soon as the lift came to a halt, however, they found five guns trained on them.

"How did you get in here?" one of the Torchwood agents asked, his voice distinctly American.

"Mr. Harkness," Sam said, remembering Dean's description of the immortal. "I'm Agent Sheppard and this is Agent Dex."

"You didn't answer my question," Harkness said, his voice steely.

"We merely used your elevator," Castiel answered, tilting his head to the side in confusion like a bird.

"Sorry, but that lift's for Torchwood personal only. There's a visitor's entrance around the side," Harkness replied, a hint of dark humor in his voice.

"Well, then it's a good thing we're members of the American branch," Sam continued, putting on his best fake smile.

"Torchwood doesn't have an American branch," the Torchwood operative said, a tight smile adorning his own face.

"That's actually why we're here," Sam replied, thankful that he'd had so much experience making up excuses to law officials on the fly. "There's been increased…_activity_ in the US lately and we're looking to establish a defense."

"It's true," the short Asian woman broke in, lowering her gun. "For about a year the US has had a huge spike in strange deaths and other unusual events. Just a few weeks ago in Omaha, Nebraska over twenty five people ate so much that they died. One man ate so many Twinkies that he could no longer swallow and then started shoving more down his throat with a toilet brush."

Everyone looked sufficiently disgusted, but all except for Harkness had lowered their guns.

"Yeah, examining the body wasn't pleasant," Sam said, unable to suppress his grimace. "Look, we've already established that we're working towards the same goals. We just want to talk to you guys – get some help, maybe."

Sam put on his most sincere puppy dog eyes. Jack Harkness lowered his gun.

"Okay. Let's talk."

* * *

"So, are we trusting them?" Gwen asked, falling into step beside Jack, quiet enough so that the two strange men behind them couldn't overhear.

"Only as far as I can throw 'em," Jack replied, his expression serious. "Their little story about wanting to set up a Torchwood branch in the States is convincing, but the fact that they know about Torchwood in the first place is a reason for suspicion."

"We're not exactly unknown, Jack," Owen retorted. "We can't ask for directions without someone saying 'bloody Torchwood'."

"You ordering pizza under the name Torchwood didn't exactly help," Jack said petulantly. "And why would you even be asking for directions in the first place? Anyway, even if they'd heard of us, how'd they know about the lift? Is our perception filter broken?"

"No," Tosh answered. "It appears to be intact. Maybe one of them could see through it? It's rare, but not unheard of."

"I still don't like it," Jack said, entering the conference room and taking a set at the head of the table.

As he waited for everyone to file in and take their seats, he reassessed the newcomers. He had been completely serious when he said he didn't trust them – the tall one in particular. Jack had been a damn good conman for quite a while and he knew another when he saw one. This 'Agent Sheppard' was an excellent conman, especially with that unassuming puppy-dog look of his, but Jack had been around long enough to spot his act.

The one in the trench coat, on the other hand, was tricky. Truthfully, Jack wasn't sure what to think about him. He certainly wasn't a conman like the other, and it confused Jack that someone as experienced as 'Agent Sheppard' would work with someone who looked like he'd never lied in his life. Actually, once Jack looked more closely, 'Agent Dex' seemed to be a complete paradox. He exuded an air of confidence and his words were all spoken in an unwavering calmness, yet at the same time he appeared to be uncomfortable in his own body, with his rather unnerving gaze never wavering. He didn't even blink.

"_Maybe he's an alien,"_ Jack thought. _"It would make sense. Although, why would an alien willingly search out Torchwood? He seems to know our reputation well enough…"_

"So, what would you like to know about all the big, bad space aliens out there?" Jack asked, plastering on his signature smile, even though he was certain they both could see through it.

What he was not expecting was the look of surprise that flickered across the tall man's face. What could he have possibly said that surprised them? Was it the cooperativeness? The shock didn't seem to be the pleasantly surprised type, though…

"Um, actually," 'Agent Sheppard' began. "We're looking for information about a specific…person. He goes by 'the Doctor' – "

"Now why exactly do you want to know about him?" Jack asked, fake smile still spread tightly across his face, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

'Agent Sheppard' clearly picked up on it, but didn't back down.

"Our knowledge of him is limited – " the tall one started, but he was cut off by his partner.

"We need his help," he said firmly, staring directly into Jack's eyes, his ice blue gaze seeming to stare into Jack's very soul.

"Why do you expect _Torchwood_, an organization dedicated to destroying the Doctor, to help you bring him to Earth?" Jack asked carefully, studying their reactions.

"Why would a companion of the Doctor join an organization such as Torchwood?" the stoic one asked, cocking his head to the side slightly.

Jack froze.

"How do you know that?" he growled softly, all traces of a smile gone from his face.

"Cas – " the other started, a bit of panic leaking into his expression, obviously trying to keep 'Agent Dex' from revealing any more.

"Heaven catalogues every soul," the man said simply. "Yours has been very closely scrutinized due to its complicated history, although much remains undeciphered."

"Sorry, but did you just say 'Heaven'?" Owen asked, giving 'Agent Dex' and odd look. "As in angels and fluffy clouds and golden gates?"

"Fluffy clouds and golden gates are a common misconception," the deadpan man replied. "However, angels are abundant."

"Oh God, you sound exactly like the old lady I took care of during my psych rotation in med school," Owen said, backing away slightly from 'Agent Dex.'

"What is this about Heaven and angels?" Jack asked, jumping back into the conversation. "'cause I'm pretty sure you guys lost all credibility when you said that."

"And _aliens_ are more believable than angels?" 'Agent Sheppard' said, giving Jack an incredulous look. "This isn't exactly how I wanted this conversation to go," he shot the other 'Agent' an annoyed look "but seriously? Aliens?"

"You actually just waltzed into Torchwood Headquarters without knowing anything about what we do? And you got as far as the conference room?" Ianto said, shock dripping into his voice. "We seriously need to rethink our security measures. And yes, aliens."

"Back to the _angels_," Jack announced, trying to steer the conversation away from a tangent. "Let's say angels and heaven and whatever else does exist, what does this have to do with us?"

"We need help stopping the apocalypse. We believe that the Doctor may be of some assistance," the deadpan one answered, unwavering eyes fixed on Jack.

"The apocalypse?" Gwen said, eyes wide. "How the bloody hell did that happen?"

'Agent Dex' opened his mouth to explain, however, his partner cut him off.

"Look, we don't have time to explain every detail," he said, fake-pleasant expression gone. "We just need to know where the Doctor is."

"Sorry, but remind me again why we're believing you?" Owen cut in. "Because personally I'm ready to call the nearest psychiatric hospital. We have absolutely no proof that what you're saying is real. I mean, how do we know that you're not just mistaking aliens for monsters?"

'Agent Dex' sighed.

"As an Angel of the Lord I am allowed to perform a minor miracle to demonstrate my Father's power."

There was a moment of silence.

"Owen, I think you're really sexy," Tosh blurted out suddenly.

"…Sorry, what?" Owen replied, a confused and shocked expression on his face. "I mean, I have no problem with you thinking that I'm sexy, but seriously, where'd that come from?"

"…Oh my god, did I actually just say that out loud?" Tosh said, mostly to herself, blushing brightly.

"I'm failing to see how this is a miracle," Jack said. "Owen's pretty good looking, actually."

"Hey!"

"I think the miracle was Tosh actually speaking her mind," Ianto corrected. "I mean, really. Watching those two for the past few years has been kind of like watching a slow motion train crash: horrifying yet morbidly amusing."

"Now, can you tell us where –" the tall one started, only to be cut off by Jack.

"I still don't believe you," he said. "That was a nifty mind trick, but I still don't think it counts as a miracle."

At this flippant dismissal, Castiel's eyes darkened. The lights began to flicker and thunder crashed, while what the Torchwood members assumed to be lightening illuminated the room with blasts of light. You know, despite the fact that they were completely underground and had no windows. The looming shadows of a pair of feathery wings were cast on the wall of the conference room.

"You _will_ help us," Castiel said firmly.

Jack gave a small nod.

* * *

Dean Winchester rang the doorbell to the residence of Amelia Pond and Rory Williams, straightening out his tie as he waited for someone to open the door.

"Now is really not the best time," an annoyed sounding Scottish accent proclaimed loudly, as the door opened.

Dean smiled, turning up the charm an extra notch as the person opening the door came into view. This 'Rory Williams' was a damn lucky guy to have this leggy redhead for a wife.

"Well? Sorry to break it to you, pretty boy, but I'm not a kiss-o-gram anymore," she said crossing her arms.

Dean raised an eyebrow and tried very hard not to grin. Kiss-o-gram, eh?

"Are you Amelia Pond?" he asked, stepping into his best law enforcement persona.

She nodded, a suspicious and wary look in her eyes.

"I'm Agent Ulrich of the CIA," he said, pulling out his fake badge for her to see. "I'm looking for two men who we believe may have contacted you – Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

"Why are you looking for them?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Dean replied, giving her a dazzling smile that only seemed to irritate her.

"What does the American government have to do with anything? They were just investigating an old case," Amy said.

"Impersonating law enforcement is one of the charges against them," Dean answered, still smiling. "Now if you could tell me where they went –"

"They're in the kitchen," she interrupted.

"_Shit,"_ Dean thought. _"I didn't see a car and they had a few hours' head start. I thought they'd already left."_

"Come in, then," Amy said, opening the door more to let him in the house. "The kitchen's this way."

Dean reluctantly followed her, glad that he had at least brought his handgun. As they neared the kitchen they began to hear bits of conversation, although they were still too far away to understand any of what was being said. Dean's brow furrowed as he heard three voices. The third one must be Rory Williams, then.

"I have no clue what they're doing in there," a man said, stepping out from the living room.

He was the same height as Amy and has light brown-blond hair. He wore a red plaid flannel shirt and jeans. In fact, Dean would have labeled him as unassuming if he hadn't caught the sharp look that the man had sent towards Dean upon seeing him, instinctively placing a hand on Amy's upper arm.

"Who's this?" the man asked sharply, while examining Dean carefully.

"He's a CIA agent, here for 'Inspector Lestrade' and John," Amy told the man, before turning back to Dean. "This is my husband, Rory."

So, not Rory Williams in the other room. By now they had reached to entryway to the kitchen, allowing Dean to hear part of the conversation.

" – not ginger. I'm the Doctor."

Dean stepped into the room, immediately zeroing in on the unknown man in the room who had identified himself as the Doctor.

"You're the Doctor?" the hunter asked, causing the three men to break their conversation and look at him.

There was silence for a moment while the two men examined each other. Dean could honestly say that the young man in a bowtie who stood before him wasn't exactly the imposing god that he had imagined. Still, he'd seen too much to not know that looks could definitely be deceiving.

"Dean Winchester," the Doctor said, his voice slightly more subdued than before. "This – now this is big."

"Yeah, it is," Dean replied simply, all traces of a smile gone from his face. "We need your help."

"'We'?" the Doctor asked.

"Me an' Sam. America. Probably the World, too," Dean replied, tiredness seeping into his voice. "…You up to saving the world?"

"Always," the Doctor replied, brightening again. "So, what is it this time?"

"Wait – just a second here," the man in the striped sweater, John Watson, interrupted, looking confused. "Am I the only one who's lost here?"

"They haven't met before," Sherlock muttered to himself. "But not a serial killer…"

"Thank you, someone who gets it right!" Dean exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face. "You know, I'm starting to think you're not so bad."

"Not you," Sherlock retorted, glaring at Dean. "The Doctor. Not a serial killer. Although I now believe that you're not a serial killer, either. You have killed people, though."

"I take back my last comment," Dean grumbled. "You're still an annoying douche."

"I maintain that your horrible lack of vocabulary is steadily eating away at everyone else's," Sherlock shot back. "Now if we're going to have this conversation why don't you make yourself useful and retrieve the moderately intelligent one from Cardiff."

"What?" Dean said, a little shocked.

"Your brother, Samuel. The one who went to Stanford. The brains of the operation," Sherlock said in an exasperated tone. "He's in Cardiff investigating Torchwood."

"How do you know that?" Dean asked, his tone becoming darker.

Dean was pretty sure that Sherlock almost rolled his eyes.

"You are here, tailing me, which means that you've been keeping track of my investigation. Therefore you obviously know about Torchwood's intervention. The only mentions of Torchwood lead to Cardiff, therefore the other two are in Cardiff following up that lead," the consulting detective said. "It's useless, of course. The chances of picking out the correct building are slim to none with the amount of information available to us, and even if, miraculously, you were able to locate their headquarters successful infiltration to the point that they would be willing to impart any relevant and classified knowledge would take months."

Dean grinned.

"I think that Sam and Cas would surprise you," he said.

"Would someone mind explaining to us what's going on?" Amy said, frustration clearly evident.

"Oh yes, introductions!" the Doctor announced happily, clapping his hands. "Rory, Amy meet Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective – bit of a genius, actually – and his trusty sidekick, Doctor John Watson!"

"Sidekick?" John repeated, sounding slightly offended.

"Would you prefer 'companion'?" the Doctor asked, turning to look at John.

"I think I've got enough of a problem with people mistaking me for his boyfriend without anyone calling me his 'companion'," John replied, still looking nonplussed. "Today really is not my day. First the Torchwood guy…"

"Torchwood guy?" the Doctor asked, perking up. "Tall, American, WWII greatcoat?"

John nodded.

"Don't worry about it," the Doctor told him. "Jack's omnisexual and has probably at least flirted with everyone he's ever met. He kissed me once. It was a little rushed, considering we were all about to die, but not bad."

"Omnisexual?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep," the Doctor chirped, before turning back to Amy and Rory and motioning towards Dean. "Anyway, this is Dean Winchester, hunter extraordinaire and highly dedicated older brother."

"'Highly dedicated older brother' isn't something I typically put on my resume," Dean remarked.

"Well, you should," the Doctor replied. "The way you go about it, it's practically a fulltime commitment. Now – "

However, whatever the Doctor was going to say was cut off by the shrill ringing of a cell phone. The Doctor looked confused for a moment before fishing in his pockets, eventually pulling out a sleek flip-phone.

"Hello?" he said, seeming slightly confused and worried. "Yes, this is the Doctor speaking…Jack? What a coincidence – we were just talking about you!"

There was a pause.

"Well, send them over – I'm at Amy's house."

Another pause.

"Oh, right, you haven't met yet, have you?"

Something the other person said made the Doctor frown.

"She's married!"

The Doctor almost looked like he was pouting.

"No, they're not interested in a three way!"

Dean was pretty sure that if Doctor Watson had been drinking something he would have spit it out after hearing that last comment.

"Leadworth. Now get over here."

The person on the other end said something that made a smile tug at the Doctor's lips, although he tried to suppress it.

"Yes, yes. They're all invited. Now, really, I do have some important things we need to discuss. I'll see you in a bit."

With that, he hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"Jack and his Torchwood crew will be popping over in a bit, along with Sam and Castiel," the Doctor announced. "Why don't we chat in the living room for the time being?"

Dean followed the Doctor as he left the room, the others also following, although the consulting detective seemed reluctant, however after entering the living room, the Doctor him to stop, and was confused to find a short man (well, not particularly short – taller than John, at least) in a pristine suit sprawled out on the couch. Behind him he heard Doctor Watson take in a sharp breath.

"Now, now," the man said in an annoyingly patronizing voice. "I don't want you interfering, Doctor, Mr. Winchester. I'm afraid I'm not allowed to let you continue with this little…_investigation_."

"Moriarty," Sherlock spat, as if the name was some sort of foul curse.

"Hello, dear," 'Moriarty' replied, his tone condescending. "Move along now, I don't have time for our little game. Daddy has business to attend to with the big boys right now."

"Who are you?" Dean cut in, eyes boring into the newcomer.

"An interested party," he replied. "It really is my lucky day, though. I was thinking that I'd have to go fetch Sammifer myself, but you've already called him. I've been wanting to take a stab at him for quite a while now."

Something dark flickered in Dean's eyes.

"Christo!"

The grinning man's eyes turned black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Kuri:** Oh god, it's been forever! I finally have another chapter for you, though. I really hate the end, though, and I feel like I'm shit at writing DI Lestrade, but, well, it's the best I have to give you guys...Eh. I've been really really really distracted by Avengers. Because Avengers is freaking amazing. AVENGERS. Anyway, on with the chapter!

Oh, also, just for kicks I decided to compile a list of the characters heights (based on their actor)...and John is shorter than Gabriel. Here's the list for anyone who's interested:

5'2" (Toshiko "Tosh" Sato)

5'6" (Chuck Shurley)

5'6" (John Watson)

5'7" (Gabriel)

5'7" (Gwen Cooper)

5'8" (Jim Moriarty)

5'11" (Amy Pond)

5'11" (Castiel)

5'11" (the Eleventh Doctor)

5'11" (Greg Lestrade)

5'11" (Owen Harper)

5'11" (Rory Williams)

6'0" (Dean Winchester)

6'0" (Ianto Jones)

6'0" (Jack Harkness)

6'0" (Sherlock Holmes)

6'1" (Lucifer)

6'1" (Mycroft Holmes)

6'4" (Sam Winchester)

* * *

**No Matter How Improbable**

**- Chapter Five -**

* * *

Jack Harkness flipped his mobile phone shut and turned to the now identified Sam Winchester and Castiel.

"We're heading over to Leadworth. Your brother is already with the Doctor there," he announced.

"He found the Doctor already?" the tallest one said, surprised.

"I think it was more the Doctor found him. It tends to work that way, although the Doctor did mention something about a detective," Jack replied, grabbing the keys to the Torchwood van and starting to head to the door.

"The one from this morning?" Ianto asked, a look of contemplation on his face.

"Not sure, although that might make some sense, considering he was looking into the Doctor," Jack said as he unlocked the van.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Sam questioned.

Ianto nodded.

"Yeah, that would make sense," Sam agreed. "He was headed to Leadworth earlier while tracking down the Doctor. Some sort of relation to an 'Amelia Pond'."

"The Doctor did say he was at Amy's house," Jack confirmed as he climbed into the driver's seat, Ianto grabbing shotgun.

Sam and Castiel tentatively followed Gwen, Owen, and Tosh as they clambered into the back of the van, an interesting expression appearing on Sam's face as he saw the tracking systems and other monitors in the back of the black SUV – a cross between excited, interested, and apprehensive.

Jack started the engine and pulled out onto the road. No one spoke for a few moments.

"I do not understand," Castiel suddenly said, his eyes still traveling over the contents of the van curiously. "Why is 'Torchwood' painted on the side of a vehicle for a secret organization?"

The Torchwood crew glanced at each other awkwardly.

"It just came that way," was Tosh's simple reply.

Castiel still looked confused but did not push the subject. A moment later however, he suddenly went from looking like a dissatisfied child whose mother had told him to stop asking questions, to looking like, well, a wrathful angel, his expression intense and his hair standing on end.

"Cas, what – " Sam began, worry coloring his tone, however he was cut off by the angel.

"I do not have time to explain. Dean is at risk," Castiel replied shortly, his gruff tone a little dark.

The next moment he was gone.

"What the fu – " Jack exclaimed, Ianto quickly reaching for the steering wheel as Jack began to swerve.

"Don't panic!" Sam instructed, although he was panicking slightly too at Jack's erratic driving. "Castiel does that sometimes. It's perfectly normal."

"Normal? Where'd he go?" Jack demanded, as he steadied himself.

"Well, considering he said that Dean was in danger, I'd say he's at Amy Pond's house," Sam answered. "Although it is kind of strange… Dean and I regularly find ourselves in danger but Castiel doesn't come popping in all that often."

"Can you think of anything that might be a large enough threat to your brother for Castiel to react in such a way?" Tosh asked, fixing her gaze on Sam, all business.

"Not a lot," Sam replied, concern evident in his voice. "One of the Horsemen maybe."

"Horsemen?" Owen questioned, his voice leery. "Like the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed, giving a small nod. "We've taken care of War and Famine already, but Pestilence and Death should still be roaming around out there."

"Is there anything else that Castiel would feel the need to protect your brother from?" Tosh asked, determined to be thorough.

Sam paused for a moment.

"Another angel," he finally said.

"Why would another angel be a threat?" Owen asked. "I thought they were on our side."

Sam winced slightly at that question, replying, "Castiel is actually the exception, not the rule. The majority of the angels are rather pro-apocalypse. This is why we need the Doctor's help. We figured that maybe he'd be able to help us stop this. Otherwise it's pretty much just the three of us against the world. Team Free Will."

"Well…" Jack began slowly, rejoining the conversation. "I think the majority of the people in this van here are anti-apocalypse. I, personally, am rather attached to this planet…and all of the attractive people on it," he added, checking out, well, _everyone_.

"That's harassment, sir," Ianto said calmly, although Sam noticed a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm sure we'd be willing to lend a hand, though."

Sam hesitated for a moment before speaking again.

"So, here's how you defend yourself from angels…"

* * *

The Pond-Williams living room was an interesting place. Scratch that – it was actually quite dull. It clearly hadn't been re-wallpapered since the early 1800s and was considerably faded. The furniture was in relatively good condition but certainly showed signs of use. The decorative style of the room, on the other hand, looked akin to someone's long deceased great aunt. You know, the one with the pheasant hat that smelled eternally of dust. Get my picture? Dull.

The scene playing itself out in the Pond-Williams living room, on the other hand, was _quite_ interesting. After all, it's not every day you see two time-travelers, an alien, a consulting detective and his blogger, a hunter, and a demon in the same room.

John Watson was already having a hard enough time processing what the hell was going on in the room when Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade suddenly appeared in the middle of the living room. _Appeared_. As in, out of thin air. One moment there was a nice bit of open space atop the musty carpet and the next moment there was a silver haired man standing there, looking rather annoyed with the whole situation.

"_What the bloody hell did Sherlock put in my tea this morning?"_ John wondered, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"I didn't put anything in you tea, John," Sherlock said suddenly, startling John slightly.

"Did I say that out loud?" John asked, tearing his eyes from Lestrade to look at Sherlock.

"No. You just had that look on your face – the one that you get when nothing is making sense," he replied. "I suspect that if I drugged you, I drugged myself, too. Along with Mr. Winchester and Mr. and Mrs. Pond-Williams."

"Not the Doctor?" John questioned, with the sort of tone that implied an eyebrow raise.

"He seems off enough on his own. I doubt that anything I was to drug him with would make a difference," Sherlock answered calmly, although there was a slightly teasing quality in his voice.

A small huff of laughter left John's lips at Sherlock's words, before he refocused his eyes of Inspector Lestrade. Who was currently glaring at them.

"Will nothing I ever do be good enough to surprise you?" he said exasperatedly. "I mean, really. I just appeared out of thin air and you two are joking about drugging people's tea? What am I, chopped liver?"

Sherlock's expression darkened and his demeanor turned much more serious. "Do not patronize me, Inspector. I know perfectly well that I do not currently have enough data to properly process this situation, and I am beginning to suspect that I haven't had enough information from the start. Dean and Sam Winchester are clearly not serial killers. Jimmy Novak is not missing, because he was never lost. The Doctor has never before come into contact with the Winchesters. Amelia Pond is not in any way mentally unstable, and yet she's seen four psychiatrists. Jack Harkness has no listed residence, no health incurrence – actually, no medical records at all. The only proof that he exists at all is his record of employment by Torchwood. And _you_," he snapped, turning to the Doctor.

"_You_ are a complete _contradiction_. Your jacket, while old-fashioned looking, is from a fashion line that came out yesterday, and yet the scorch on your left sleeve, the creases on the shoulders and the state of the inner lining suggest that you've been wearing it for at least six months and that prior to that it was folded up for a period of time.

"Meanwhile, your garishly red bowtie is from a fashion line that was discontinued around 1872. However, your bowtie looks worn, but not decomposed. No matter how well a fabric is preserved, there will always be a certain amount of decomposition, and yet, despite the fact that you clearly wear it daily and take no formal care of the over a hundred year old fabric, it appears to be only about six months old."

"Oh, aren't you just _brilliant!_" the Doctor exclaimed excitedly, not seeming at all disturbed by Sherlock's deductions. "You know, reading about your deductions is nowhere close to actually seeing you in action."

Sherlock blinked, which for those who knew him well enough was a clear sign of his utter surprise at the Doctor's proclamation.

"At this rate you'll have yourself your own cheer squad," DI Lestrade muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Oh, I'm not finished with you, Inspector," Sherlock retorted, rounding on Greg. "Sticking out of your pocket is a ticket for the tube which was purchased an hour ago, and yet here you are in Leadworth, which is approximately three hours away from London."

"I like how the fact that I just _appeared out of thin air_ doesn't factor at all into your observations," Lestrade retorted sarcastically.

"I wasn't entirely joking about hallucinogens in our tea," Sherlock muttered.

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as another person appeared (out of thin air) in front of him.

"Castiel?" he sputtered. "What are you doing here?"

"Barachiel," Castiel said flatly, but with a slight edge to his voice. "Dean Winchester is under my protection."

"Wha-?" Lestrade started, as he turned to look at the hunter standing slightly out of the way awkwardly. "Oh. Yes. Well. How'd someone with your rank end up on security detail for Michael's vessel? No offense."

Castiel tilted his head to the side slightly, an intense but confused look on his face. "I was promoted over a year ago."

"Oh, well, that would explain it," the silver haired man said, a sheepish smile on his face. "I haven't really been in contact much lately."

"You…_are_ aware of the impending apocalypse, aren't you?" the other man asked tentatively.

"What?!" Lestrade exclaimed, eyes widening in shock. "I mean, I got rid of a couple of nasty buggers who were tampering with a seal a couple of weeks ago, and I had noticed a few other seals being loosed over in your neck of the woods, but I thought it was just some punks with a bit of knowledge. You mean this is the real deal?"

"Have you not received any orders?" Castiel questioned, now looking thoroughly confused.

"No," Lestrade replied, shaking his head. "Nothing since I was assigned to _this_."

He emphasized "this" by jerking his thumb over in Sherlock's direction, causing the Consulting Detective's eyes to narrow, and a scowl to appear on the curly haired man's face.

"You have heard nothing in five years?"

"Nothing."

"Now, now, boys. Stealing my thunder, are you?" a sickly sweet voice drawled, breaking into Castiel and Lestrade's confusing conversation. "Although I suppose it's irrelevant who broke the big news. I had come here to discuss it anyways."

"Aka Manah," Lestrade growled, causing the others (except Castiel) to shiver slightly as a strange chill permeated the room. "I thought I told you to _stay away_ from Sherlock and John."

"Oh, come now, Barachiel, sweetie," Moriarty sing-songed. "You _know_ I don't take orders from _angels_."

"Well, how about you take orders from _two_ angels," the silver haired man said, pausing for a moment before adding, "and a hunter."

"Oh, but haven't you heard?" Moriarty asked, exaggerated drama in his tone. "Silly question – of course not. Little Castiel isn't really on your side anymore. You see, your superiors _want_ this war. Cassie and his little hunter friend, on the other hand…we'll they've been stirring up a bit of trouble for upstairs."

Lestrade's expression hardened, an expression of anger on his face that Sherlock had never seen before. "You lie," he hissed through clenched teeth, bristling.

"I do not," Moriarty replied gleefully. "All of the seals have been broken and Lucifer released, and yet the 'final showdown' hasn't happened yet. Cassie's been hiding Dean-o and Sammifer from Mike-y and Lucy – that's the reason this isn't over yet."

Lestrade paused.

"Castiel…is this true?" he asked carefully, although his gaze remained locked on Moriarty.

"Yes," the other angel answered after a moment. "It is."

"Aaaaand that's why I'm here," Moriarty crowed smugly. "See, upstairs seems to have…acquired…a new weapon of sorts. Something that I'm pretty sure none of you want them playing with. I believe it's called a TARDIS."

"Tar-?" Lestrade started, only to be cut off of by a horrified yelp from the man in the bowtie.

"_My_ TARDIS? The _angels_ have my _TARDIS_?!" the Doctor exclaimed, looking pale.

"Last time I was around when angels and the TARDIS were together, bad things happened," Amy said, her accent making her sound both annoyed and a little nervous. "And by bad, I mean that I very nearly got turned into a stone killing machine."

"Not _those_ angels," Moriarty corrected, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. "The _real_ angels."

"Technically the Weeping Angels had already been around for more than five million years before your little earth angels evolved," the Doctor said, but there was an underlying tension in his voice. "What I want to know is what the angels plan on doing with my TARDIS."

"Seeing as Dean-o here refuses to be Mike-y's vessel, Mike-y decided to take things into his own hands. He figured that using the temporal energy of your little space ship would allow him to stabilize an imperfect vessel long enough to fight Lucy," the demon answered.

"No no no no no no no," the Doctor muttered. "No – they _cannot_ do that. _Cannot_. They'll destroy the sun! They _do_ know that they'll destroy the sun, don't they?"

"Why should it matter if they destroy the sun?" Lestrade asked. "It _is_ the end of the world, after all."

"_Christians_," the alien huffed indignantly. "You're not the only ones who need that sun, you know."

"Well, then why doesn't Winchester over there just accept Michael?" Lestrade argued. "If Michael's new plan will cause so many problem then just hand over his bloody vessel, Castiel!"

"Hey, feather brains! Even if Cas did hand me over Michael'd still need my consent and there's no way in hell I'd allow him to level the earth for a grudge match!" Dean protested, eyes dark and sharp as they glared at the other angel.

"For His sake, you can't actually believe in this, can you, Castiel?" Lestrade said, turning to the angel in the trench coat.

"Father is no longer the one giving the orders. Michael has no right to decide the fate of this world," Castiel replied.

"Damn it, Castiel! Listen to yourself! Michael is our brother and God's own second in command! He knows what he's doing!" Lestrade yelled.

Castiel paused for a moment.

"What if it was Raguel?"

Silence.

"What if it was Raguel who needed his vessel? Would you be so ready to sacrifice the one who stands beside you for a cause that you were unsure of?"

"I…"

"I have known my charge for less than you, and yet my grace compels me to _feel_ for him. If you would so easily detach yourself from Sherlock Holmes then you are not the one I believed you to be," Castiel stated, quietly but firmly.

"I came to your charge for help because I believed that you, of all angels, would understand what it is to feel human emotion," Castiel continued. "I was under the misconception that so much time spent with humans would have changed you, like it had Anna and myself."

Lestrade let out a growl of frustration, threading his fingers into his short gray hair. "I…I wouldn't…" he let out a sigh. "This is all just so – so goddamned _complicated_!"

"…Well, that was informative," Sherlock announced, seemingly unconcerned. "This all makes much more sense now."

"We just listened to a conversation about angels, demons, God and the apocalypse, and you say that everything makes sense now?" John asked, eyebrows raised.

"I have to agree with him," Rory said, motioning towards John. "I am completely and utterly lost, barring the whole 'angels have the phone box' part. Which isn't making this scenario look very good."

"What is it like to be so horribly _deaf_?" Sherlock questioned condescendingly. "Of _course_ this makes sense, once one learns to accept appropriate given facts. Namely, that angels, demons, and gods exist. Knowing that, everything else falls into place."

"You know, I'd be more suitably impressed with your genius if you'd actually tell me what you've deduced," John huffed.

If Sherlock had been the type to roll his eyes, he would have at that moment.

"As they said, both Castiel and the Detective Inspector, or, rather, _Barachiel_, are angels while Moriarty is a demon. They said that Dean Winchester was a 'hunter,' meaning he hunts the supernatural – the signs are all there: paranoia, mysterious fake-deaths, law enforcement official impersonation, bizarre weaponry and crimes, etc. Most likely his brother Samuel is also a hunter, then, along with their father, John, and frequent companion, Robert Singer. They also said that Castiel and the Winchesters were attempting to stop the Apocalypse. That's why they contacted us. It has not yet been stated what species 'the Doctor' is – probably because no one but the Doctor and his companions know. However, someone who's anti-apocalypse took note of him – probably Castiel – due to the mysterious circumstances of his history and alleged sightings," Sherlock explained. "Now, why do they believe he can, and will, help? Because 'God' is missing – for how long is unknown – and the Doctor certainly depicts himself as a god."

"I do not! I promise you, I'm hardly a god," the Doctor protested.

"Please," Sherlock snorted, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "While you may not believe that you, yourself, are a god, the image you project conflicts this. While you hold humans in high regard, when temper overtakes you, you place yourself above them as a more advanced life form; you display your superior knowledge and technology openly; you benevolently and regularly protect humans from threats of violence; and you appear unchanged throughout time and space. What must you look like to primitive, small minded, common people? An ageless, all knowing, and equitable higher power.

"The possibility that you were 'God' was even big enough that an angel decided that it was worth the effort to ask for your help in stopping the Apocalypse. Of course, the notion that the Doctor is 'God' is quite naïve," Sherlock proclaimed condescendingly. "His concept of time is vague at best and he clearly ages, just not linearly. He also knows terribly little about current events and, quite often, speaks of the present as the past: easily pointed out in how he questioned John and myself on which cases we had yet to solve – so, presumably, I'll be meeting someone known as 'the Woman' sometime in the near future. Therefore, he's a time traveler."

"A time traveler?" John repeated in disbelief. "I always thought you just enjoyed listening to yourself talk, but you clearly didn't hear _any_ of what you just said. Either that, or I'm having a _really_ bizarre dream."

"…you know you live an abnormal life when the dream idea is second," Rory muttered to himself, and Amy let out a small giggle at his words.

"It's really not that difficult, John," Sherlock said exasperatedly. "You were going on about an article you read about a new species of bug eating slug found in Thailand just last month, so how is this any different?"

"Sherlock, a new species of slug is a little bit easier to process than a new species of…I don't even know! Angels!" John tried to explain. "You're basically telling me that _magic_ exists!"

"Don't be silly, John. Magic doesn't exist," Sherlock stated firmly. "Clarke's third law: 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'"

"Yes, well, it's still a bit much to take in all at once," John protested. "Although, I have to ask…how did you manage to go – what, five years? – without realizing that DI Lestrade wasn't human?"

This gave Sherlock pause.

"Of _course_! Stupid!" he exclaimed. "Castiel and Lestrade were talking about vessels – more specifically, about the angel Michael needing to use Dean Winchester as a vessel. When I first met Lestrade _he was already possessed_. Recently possessed, actually. When I started consulting for the Yard, I notice that the Detective's personality had changed slightly. I _stupidly_ assumed that his personality had changed due to his recent marital struggles – not that his marital struggles were due to his personality change. I suppose that also explains why you so easily let your wife get away with her sexual promiscuity – she isn't really _your_ wife, now is she?"

The last part was directed at the Detective Inspector/angel, who seemed to be struggling between expressions of pleasant surprise, annoyance, and slight awe.

"She's, well, a widow, actually," he said, an awkwardness in his stance that none of the others had seen in him since he'd released his angelic wrath. "See, I don't really feel comfortable possessing people who are alive. Greg Lestrade, though, fell down the stairs in his house and was going to die, so before he passed away I asked him if I could use his body as my vessel. You see, angels have to ask permission – "

"Yes, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "You implied so earlier in your conversation."

"Well," a falsely sweet voice broke into their conversation. "As adorable as this conversation is, I personally, would like to stop Mike-y from gaining an immense amount of temporal energy. And from destroying the sun. But sabotaging the angels is a little further up there. Sometime before the Apocalypse."


	6. Chapter 6

**Kuri: **Sorry for making you guys wait so long for another update! ...That is, if anyone's still interested in this fic. If you are, you have TheLittleLostTimeLord over on AO3 to thank for finally kicking my butt into gear. I've been writing a 50,000+ Avengers crossover epic over on AO3, so... Well, I hope that this chapter is acceptable.

* * *

**No Matter How Improbable**

**- Chapter Six -**

* * *

Dean Winchester was _not_ having a good day. Not at all. Of course, with his job there was rarely a day that he could solidly classify as a _good_ day, but today was really not going too well. It was bad enough that he'd miscalculated and let the detective and his sidekick know that he'd been tailing them, but now he was stuck in a room with a powerful demon (well, he was assuming that this 'Aka Manah' was powerful, going by Castiel's reaction), a hostile angel – who was apparently Cas' superior, and some crazy time traveler. The Doctor wasn't even God! They'd wasted all sorts of time chasing after him.

The situation hadn't completely spun out of control yet, though. The demon had so far made no move to attack any of them, and Cas seemed to be a good job of swaying the other angel over to Team Free Will. In fact, the _demon_ even appeared to be more in a deal making mood, as opposed to a slaughter everyone for kicks mood. However, there was no fucking way Dean Winchester would actually agree to team up with a _demon_.

"There is no fucking way I'd actually agree to team up with a _demon_," Dean said bluntly, crossing his arms and glaring at the creature sitting on the Pond-Williams' plush couch. He looked far too comfortable for Dean's liking. "So you can shove your 'help' back up your ass, where you pulled it out from."

"Dean, Dean," the demon chided in a creepy pseudo-parent voice. "When did I ever offer my help? I'm not _that_ nice. True, I don't want this silly apocalypse, but I can't risk Lucy finding out. He'd surely have my _head_."

The hunter scowled at the strange lilt of the demon's voice. He was sure that the demon was laughing at him right now, at least internally. And the way the demon held himself, casually, like a contented cat, Dean doubted that he held any true fear of Lucifer. It was a odd thing for Dean to consider: he'd never before met a demon that showed such blatant disrespect for Lucifer. Even Crowly was sufficiently wary of the Devil.

"And anyway, Dean," the demon continued, "it's rather hypocritical of you to say that you'd never accept help from a demon. You and Sammy seem to be the only hunters who ever have. Although I have to say, you didn't choose very well. Ruby was always such a little bitch."

"Sorry to break up this lovely little chat that the two of you are having," the Doctor cut in, causing the two of them to pause in their conversation and look over at him, "but don't we have a few greater priorities here? And you," he continued, turning to the demon. "If you're not going to be of any use then why don't you just be on your way then."

"Oh, I _am_ going to be of use," Moriarty answered, an infuriating smile on his lips. "I'm just not going to be of any _help_."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Dean asked, looking even more tense than before, prepared to act at any moment.

"There are two bits of information you should know," Moriarty explained, expression sober, but Dean detected a hint of malicious humor under the surface. "One is that God is alive. The other is that he's in England."

"'God's in England'? Oh, that really narrows it down," Dean snapped impatiently. "Now we only have an entire _country_ to search."

"Dean, this is very useful information," Castiel said, shooting Dean a 'look.' "With our resources, this search is no longer an impossible task."

"You know, you said the same thing about when you suggested looking for the Doctor, and that didn't turn out too well," Dean snapped, uncomfortable and on edge. "This whole situation just isn't going anywhere. I say that we give up on God and just get to ganking Lucifer."

"Look," Moriarty said, breaking into Dean and Cas' argument. "I can't give you any more information, but God really is your best bet for stopping this idiotic apocalypse. I never thought I'd say this, but listen to the angel."

With those final words, the demon disappeared.

"…Now," the Doctor said, clapping his hands together and breaking the silence, "as intriguing as this whole situation is, I really do need my TARDIS back. Quite urgently actually. Once we have that done, then we'll take care of this silly apocalypse thing."

He waved his hand at the other people in the living room in dismissal. Dean glared at him and Sherlock also narrowed his eyes in distaste, while the other angel that Castiel had been arguing with looked mildly affronted.

"You know what, screw this!" Dean growled, spinning on his heel to go stalk over to the door. "I'm going to go back to doing this the old fashioned way. The fucking demon obviously knows more than he's saying, so I'll just track him down and _make_ him tell me. Come on, Cas."

Cas' lips were pressed into a thin line, and he was obviously debating the situation, trying to come up with the best move to make. In the end, he just sighed, following Dean out the door. He shot one last conflicted look over to Lestrade before he stepped out of the living room and into the hallway. Dean was waiting in the doorway, holding open the door, a look of impatience on his face. However, a hint of relief flickered through his eyes as he saw the angel. They stepped out into the sunlight.

* * *

Sam sat in the back of the Impala, a disgruntled expression on his face. The day had seemed to be going well for the most part. Until he and the Torchwood gang were nearly out of Cardiff and he'd realized that he'd left Dean's beloved car still parked out in front of the Torchwood hub. Thankfully it hadn't taken _too_ long to go back and get the car, but it delayed them enough that when they finally pulled up to Amelia Pond's house, it was only to see Dean storming out the building. When Sam tried to ask what had happened, his brother had just snapped at him and told him to get out of the driver's seat. Castiel had already claimed shotgun, so Sam found himself squished into the uncomfortable back of the car.

"So, basically this trip was useless," Sam clarified once Dean and Castiel had finished explaining what had happened in his absence.

"Not entirely," Castiel replied. "Aka Manah appears to have access to useful information – more than he divulged to us. I believe that it would be in our interest to contact him again."

"'Aka Manah'?" Sam repeated. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he said it. "You know, I think I've heard that name before. Also, how was he able to disappear like that? I thought only angels could do that."

"Aka Manah is an unusually old demon," Castiel answered. "He is over a thousand years older than Crowley. He was originally associated to the Zoroastrian religion and was thought to be the cause of evil intent in humans. His strengths lie in causing humans to be unable to differentiate between good and evil."

"But we should still be able to gank him like any other demon, right?" Dean asked, hand gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.

"In theory, yes," Castiel replied.

"That's very reassuring," Dean grumbled. "Do we even kn – whoa!"

Sam was suddenly thrown across the back seat, banging his head against the car door in the process and Dean abruptly swerved, the car diving off of the side of the much narrower British streets. The Impala jerked to a stop as the front end hit against an old stone fence with a distinct metallic crunch. Sam scrambled back up into a sitting position, trying to get a glimpse of whatever had caused Dean to crash the car. As soon as he looked up, however, the door of car was wrenched open and a rough hand clamped around Sam's wrist, pulling him out of the vehicle. Sam tried to pull away, but the hand on his wrist was inhumanly strong. Abruptly, Sam felt the tips of two fingers press against his forehead. He passed out.

* * *

"I feel like a bloody taxi driver," Lestrade grumbled as he drove down the countryside roads on the way back to London. "Why couldn't one of you sit in the front here?"

"I need to bounce my ideas off of John," Sherlock replied shortly from his position in the back seat. "It's easier to see his expressions if I'm sitting next to him."

"Yeah, well, you're not getting involved in this at all if I have any say in it," Lestrade protested, mouth set in a deep frown. "You'll just get yourself killed."

"Well, it's a good thing that you don't have any say in it, then," Sherlock shot back.

"Greg, if you think he's going to give this case up, then you clearly have been friends with a different Sherlock for the past five years," John quipped, a hint of a smile on his face.

"I wish," Lestrade muttered.

"'Greg'?" Sherlock interrupted, frowning. "Who's 'Greg'?"

"…I am," Lestrade said slowly, confused.

"'Greg'? _That's_ your first name?" Sherlock repeated, incredulous.

"How do you not know his first name?" John asked, shooting Sherlock a 'look' – torn between amusement and horror.

"I must have deleted it," Sherlock protested, an expression that was almost a pout on his face.

"You astound me," John said, looking over at Sherlock, unsure what exactly to think of him.

"There's no need to be catty, John," Sherlock grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. "The amount of things that you so carelessly overlook is far more extensive."

"Sherlock. The _solar system_," John replied, an answer that was clearly part of an ongoing argument.

Greg might as well have not been there at all. He sighed. He _really_ felt like a taxi driver now. The detective inspector was beginning to have a much greater respect for the poor people who shuttled the crazy consulting detective and his sidekick around. And they still had two and a half hours before they got back to London! If he ended up smiting someone on the way it really wouldn't be his fault. Really. Somehow, the angel didn't think that his superiors would accept any answer he could come up with, no matter how annoying Sherlock was. It really was quite problematic.

"So, what's our action plan?" John asked Sherlock, breaking Lestrade out of his thoughts. "Are we going after Moriarty, are we going to search for that tar-diss thing, or are we going to try and find God?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock answered firmly. "With him we can find both the TARDIS and God. He's also the most interesting of the three options."

"Oh, no you don't," Lestrade interrupted. "Raguel will have my _head_ if I let him near you again. So far you've been incredibly lucky not to get injured in any way and I will _not_ have you trying your luck. Go back to chasing murderers."

"I am not a child!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding, ironically, like the child that he was protesting he was not. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Says the man who wouldn't remember to eat if it wasn't for the rest of us physically dragging him away from his experiments," Lestrade shot back. "I've been protecting you for the past five years and trust me, it's been no walk in the park. I'm sure John can attest to that."

John looked over at Sherlock a little guiltily, but didn't say anything, biting the inside of his mouth. Sherlock resisted the urge to make a disgruntled face. He would _not_ pout like a child. He was about to say something more, when something on the side of the road suddenly caught his eye.

"Lestrade! Stop the car!" he ordered, leaning over the seat in front of him and peering out the windshield of the car.

Lestrade complied, his car screeching to a stop as he quickly pull over to the side of the road. John and the detective inspector immediately saw what had caused Sherlock to stop. Crashed on the side of the narrow country street was Dean and Sam's distinctive American car, the doors hanging open and dents in the front from where it had smashed against the stone wall lining some farmer's fields.

Sherlock jumped out of Lestrade's car, walking briskly across the street to inspect the abandoned vehicle more closely. He fished the magnifying glass he always carried with him out of the pocket of his long coat, examining the wheels of the car before walking back out into the middle of the street and crouching to get a better look at some dark tire marks that had been left there, presumably by the Impala.

"They were forced off the road," Sherlock announced as John crouched down next to him, eyes trailing over the marks curiously. "There are no indentations on the side of the car, so they weren't pushed, however, the angle of the skid marks along with the state of the tires suggest that they turned abruptly, most likely to avoid hitting something in the middle of the road."

"But it's really open here," John said, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Wouldn't they have been able to see whatever was in the middle of the road long before they needed to resort to swerving off the road?"

"Not if whatever was in the road hadn't been there until the last moment," Sherlock replied, grinning at John.

"So not another vehicle, then," John said, looking to Sherlock for confirmation. "Someone ran out into the road?"

"No," Sherlock said, standing up to go back over to the Impala. "They would have seen the person either running over the fields or vaulting the wall here. They would have had more time to slow down. Whoever was driving swerved very suddenly and slammed on the breaks – they had absolutely no warning."

"A person – or, well, _something_ – just appeared then?" John asked. "Like what the angels did? The teleporting thing?"

"Exactly," Sherlock replied, nodding curtly before turning to Lestrade. "I need to know what types of creatures can teleport."

"Uh, well, angels of course," Lestrade started, his gaze shifting from the battered Impala back to the consulting detective. "Some high powered demons, too. Ghosts have a limited range, but some can teleport over minor distances. There aren't a lot of things that have that sort of power. Even with spirits, most of the time it has more to do with a human's perception of them rather than actual teleportation."

"So pretty much just angels," John summarized, lips pursed.

"Pretty much," Lestrade admitted, looking uncomfortable. "Oh, well, there's also reapers. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse can teleport, too."

"But you don't think it's them," Sherlock stated, studying Lestrade closely with his slightly unnerving stare.

"…No," the detective inspector answered after a moment, looking at the ground. "There aren't many demons that can teleport and take their vessels along with them, and those demons are few and far in between. If it was a ghost, it'd probably have appeared to us, too, and reapers only appear to the person whose soul they are to collect. Also, angels don't actually have souls to collect, so it wouldn't have taken Castiel with it. As for the Horsemen, well, there would be other signs of their presence. They always cause some pretty big disturbances wherever they are."

"So angels are really the only logical conclusion," John restated, looking troubled.

"Yes," Lestrade sighed. "I just can't understand why they would do this! I know that was Castiel is doing is wrong, but…"

The detective inspector trailed off, looking small and lost. It was strange to see him that way. The other two men had never seen the confidant man in such a state, looking so confused and betrayed. As if he'd just been told that everything he knew was wrong. It was a little strange to think of him as something other than human, when at the moment he looked so very mortal.

"People do stupid things for stupid reasons," Sherlock said bluntly, waving off Lestrade's concerns. "One cannot hope to understand all of their dull motives. What truly matters are the means. Where do you think they'd be taken?"

Lestrade blinked at Sherlock for a moment, clearly unsure exactly how to answer. His expression then morphed into one of thought, frowning in concentration, before his eyes widened in realization.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed. "Why didn't I think of that sooner!"

* * *

On very, _very_ rare occasions, Amy Pond wished her life was normal. Granted, these melancholy spells typically only lasted a total of 0.0271 seconds, but, like with any normal person, they happened. This was one of those moments. Angels had the TARDIS, the apocalypse was just around the corner, angels and demons (and God) existed, and the Doctor was acting like a small child again. Well, the Doctor typically acted like a small child, but right now he was acting like a _petulant_ small child. Which really wasn't very much fun to deal with. Amusing to watch, perhaps, but not amusing to be in the general vicinity of.

"Doctor, there's no way that plan is going to work," Amy sighed, hands on her hips.

"Of course it'll work – I came up with it," the Doctor shot back, zipping around her kitchen, grabbing seemingly random things out of the cupboards. "My plans always work."

"No, they work _most of the time_," Amy corrected, arching an eyebrow. "And there's no way that this one will work."

"Will too," the Doctor shot back, grabbing a stick of butter from the fridge.

"You said it required an elephant," Amy said, annoyance clear his her voice. "In case you haven't noticed, there aren't any elephants in Leadworth."

"The elephant is optional," the Doctor amended, grabbing a spoon from a kitchen drawer and the toaster from the counter, piling them all haphazardly in the middle of the kitchen table. "It's really just for aesthetics."

"Doctor," Rory interrupted this time, poking his head into the kitchen, looking much more tired than he had looked earlier that day. "There are a bunch of strange people invading our house asking after you. Could you maybe tell them that this is not the best time? And one of them keeps giving me odd looks. Is he some sort of vampire? I thought you had to invite vampires into your house. He just barged on in."

"Doctor!" a distinctly American voice called out from behind Rory. Rory jumped as the man came up behind him in the doorway and laid his hand on Rory's shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "Long time no see!"

"Jack!" the alien exclaimed, shooting the taller man a smile. "You're looking exactly the same as always."

"And you've changed quite a bit," Jack replied, giving the Doctor a slow onceover. "Not that I'm complaining about the new look, but if you keep getting younger, I might start being accused of pedophilia."

"I'm not getting younger!" the Doctor protested. "And I'm more than twice your age!"

"Yeah, but it seems like every time I see you, your body is younger than before," Jack said, giving him a thoughtful look. "The first time I met you looked about fifteen years older than you do now. And now you look like you've got to be at least ten years younger than your last regeneration."

"I can't control it," the Doctor replied, before getting distracted and peering over Jack's shoulder at the gathering crowd of people. "Oooh, who do we have here, Jack? Introduce us, will you?"

"And you claim that _my_ hellos sound like flirting," Jack grumbled, but he had a wide smile on his face. "Team, this is the Doctor. Doctor, Toshiko Sato, Owen Harper, Gwen Cooper, and Ianto Jones."

"Pleased to meet you," Ianto greeted, offering his hand, which the Doctor shook enthusiastically.

"Of course!" the Doctor said. "Any friend of Jack's is a friend of mine. Well, _most_ friends of Jack's are friends of mine."

He proceeded to shake everyone else's hands, smiling brightly, although he looked a little crazed with his ruffled hair and wide eyes, not to mention his strange clothing style.

"Doctor, there's smoke coming out of the oven," Amy said suddenly, causing the Doctor to whip around and scamper over to the oven, moving to grab the now singed potato from the heat, nearly forgetting oven mitts. Thankfully Rory had the sense to shove them into his hands before he had a change to burn himself.

"What's all this about?" Tosh asked curiously, walking over to inspect the hodgepodge of items stacked up on the table.

"The angels stole my TARDIS," the Doctor replied, still focused on the baked potato, as if his strange statement would explain everything.

"And this will help how?" Owen asked, poking at the toaster atop the pile.

"I'm making a TARDIS detector. It's like a timey wimey detector, but not," the Doctor said, grabbing the toaster away from Owen with one hand and a pair of kitchen scissors with the other.

"What does a 'timey wimey detector' do?" Gwen asked, confused.

"It goes ding when there's stuff," the Doctor answered succinctly, still rushing about the kitchen.

"Ah, is there anything we can do to help?" Ianto asked, eying the pile of miscellaneous objects suspiciously.

The Doctor stopped for a moment to think, staring at Ianto before snapping his fingers and pointing in the direction of all the other people cluttering up the kitchen.

"The TARDIS detector has a pretty short range," he said, and Amy could practically see the gears turning in that mad head of his. "So I need a list."

"A list of what?" Rory asked, blinking at him.

"Of places an angel might hide," the Doctor replied, going back to his work with the toaster. "Any place sufficiently creepy and…religious-ey."

"Like churches?" Tosh said thoughtfully, already mentally compiling a list.

"What about chapels?" Owen asked.

They continued on like that for a few minutes, puzzling over various places that one might associate angels with. They already had a sizeable list, and it was growing by the second, much to Amy's dismay. Who knew that there were so many churches, chapels, and cathedrals in England?

"What about Westminster Abbey?" Owen said suddenly.

The Doctor dropped his potato.


End file.
